


The Caged Canary

by Battydings



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom - Susan Kay
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Historical, E/C, F/M, Jazz era, Leroux, New York City, speakeasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:55:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 41
Words: 117,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26111485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Battydings/pseuds/Battydings
Summary: Following the death of her father, Christine Daaé relocates to New York City and quickly finds herself in the middle of the intoxicating world of speakeasies. In this scene money talks, music roars and murder lurks just around the corner. Historical AU set in 1927.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 371
Kudos: 134





	1. New York, New York

** Chapter one: New York, New York **

_New York, City 1927_

Standing on the busy Greenwich Village street on a crisp June afternoon, Christine looked once more at the handwritten address she held in her hand. The address seemed to match the three-story red brick building standing proudly in front of her. Behind her the rumble and bell of the passing elevated Sixth Avenue streetcar joined the sweet cacophony of urban activity. Grasping the handle of her cumbersome scuffed and battered suitcase she trudged forward towards a door leading to the apartments above the first-floor shops. Making her way up the narrow stairs was awkward work with such a heavy burden, leaving her panting by the time she reached the third level. Her heart pounding against her chest from exertion and excitement.

Finding the apartment was easy enough. Setting her luggage down, she smoothed out the pleats of her worn, drop waist dress and rapped her knuckles on the glossy red apartment door. The sound of her gentle knocking echoed in the narrow hallway. The staccato pitter patter of small feet answered, and an enthusiastic black haired woman threw open the door with gusto.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in!" The gregarious, petite young woman exclaimed joyfully, "Christine Daaé, here in the big apple!"

"Meg Giry, my one-woman welcome party. Oh, it is so good to see you!" Christine rushed forward to grasp Meg into a tight embrace. Both women adorned with large, ecstatic smiles on their faces.

"I wanted to throw you a parade, but marching bands and elephants are so hard to come by these days." Meg explained in feigned exasperation, "Please, come in! Welcome to your new home, Christine!"

Christine hoisted her heavy bag and crossed the threshold into the charming little flat. She saw a small kitchen directly to her left and a sitting area decorated with a couple of burgundy highbacked chairs and a green velvet sofa. There were elegant lamps with tassel shades and a large oil painting of a field of yellow flowers hanging on one blue wall. The Girys always knew how to make the most of little. Meg's mother, Antoinette, always had a keen eye for a bargain and a knack for interior design. Their apartment was cozy, smelled like warm cinnamon, it felt like a place where love lived.

"Meg, this is just darling. Your mother certainly knows how to tie a room together." Christine smiled, it felt so wonderful to be among friends.

The Girys were practically family to Christine. Christine's father had worked as a violinist at the Palais Garnier where Antoinette worked as a box keeper, little Meg was a member of the ballet troupe and Christine dreamed of singing in the chorus. The two families had become very close. Two years ago, Meg was offered the role as Prima Ballerina at the Metropolitan Opera in New York, prompting the Girys to move across the Atlantic. Madame Giry was also able to secure a job as at the opera in concierge, allowing her to remain as close to her daughter at all times as she had done so in Paris.

The past few months had been incredibly lonely and painful for Christine after her father succumbed to his quick battle to Tuberculosis. The moment his last breath came rattling from his disease-ridden lungs, she felt as though a part of her broke inside. Her twenty-fifth birthday coincided with the day of his passing; the irony not lost on her that she would become an orphan on the very anniversary of her birth. Christine never had the opportunity to know her mother as it was also by strange fate her mother had died from complications after birthing Christine into the world. Having lost both parents on the same day is tragic, but to lose them on the day of her birth seemed too cruel.

Her father left her with just enough money to cover the cost of his burial, with a handful of meager funds left over. Sympathetic to her plight, Antionette and Meg invited her to leave Paris and move to live with them in New York City. Christine did not hesitate; she accepted the generous offer immediately.

Meg waved her towards a hallway towards the right.

"Come on, I'll show you our room." She led Christine down a hall with two doors and reached the farthest one down.

The room had two small beds, tidily made with pink coverlets and a large white dresser between them. The lace curtains in the window were open, revealing the view of the neighborhood and the railings of a fire escape.

"You can take any bed you want, but if you take the one by the window you'll probably wake up with the sun in your face." Meg warned.

"I need every scrap of the sun I can get, Meg. Do you see how pale I am?" Christine crossed the room and tossed her suitcase on the bed, solidify her choice.

Meg snorted, "I suppose that means we need to make a trip to Coney Island next month and spend an afternoon at the beach. Oh, you will love it! They have a Ferris wheel, plus a new Roller Coaster that opens later this month! We'll eat our fill of hot dogs and saltwater taffy and make ourselves dreadfully sick!"

"Sounds like your idea of a good time." Christine cleared her throat, her mouth was feeling parched "You wouldn't happen to have something cold to drink, would you Meg?"

Meg covered her mouth in dismay "Jeepers! I'm a terrible hostess! I'm sorry Christine, you've come such a long way, I should have asked the second you got here! Come, let's wet that whistle of yours."

The girls made their way back to the sitting room. Christine sat upon the velvet sofa.

Meg made her way to the kitchen and Christine heard the sound of an ice box opening and closing. She came back with her hands behind her back. "We have Ginger Ale…", she held one bottle up then held up a second identical bottle. "Or Ginger Ale."

"I really enjoy appreciate the illusion of choice you have created here, Meg." Christine tapped her finger on her chin in mock contemplation "I suppose I'll have the Ginger Ale"

"Excellent choice, Mademoiselle." Meg drawled in a snobby French accent, popping the caps off with a bottle opener sitting on a table next to her. Christine accepted the chilly beverage with immense gratitude. The travel to America had been uncomfortable and long, her funds did not allow her to partake of simple pleasures like this. She had been forced to eat one meal a day to stretch what little money she had. Luckily, Antoinette had lined up a job for her and was allowing her to stay with them until she was ready to make her way on her own.

"So, what is it like to be Prima Ballerina? Please, tell me all about the Metropolitan Opera!" Christine took a sip of her soda, enjoying the crisp, bubbly taste.

"Christine, it's like living a dream! Oh, it doesn't pay what it should, but I'm doing what I love." Meg took a made a deep, dreamy sigh. "One day we'll get you on that stage singing too! Oh, and the best part is the Ghost!" At this Christine rolled her eyes.

"Meg Giry, you think every building is haunted. First the Palais Garnier and now the Metropolitan?" Christine giggled, "I suppose this apartment is plagued with restless spirits as well?"

"Psh, the only restless spirt around this building is Mrs. Dubrow's pet spaniel. I'm telling you, that dog is a real yapper. Howling at all ungodly hours of the morning" Meg grinned "But I'm being serious about the Ghost. He leaves the managers threatening notes and demands a private box…"

"Now Meg, why on earth would a ghost need a private box? Can he not watch the show from anywhere he wants?" Christine was not going to listen to this superstitious nonsense. Meg always had a flare for the dramatic, once she had convinced Christine to hold a midnight seance with a Spirit Board at the Paris Opera…it was unsuccessful.

The sound of the apartment door opening interrupted their conversation, with a smiling Antoinette Giry entering the apartment.

"Christine! I am so sorry I was not here when you arrived! Come, let me look at you" At that Christine rushed forward to embrace the tall and slender woman.

Antoinette Giry was a formidable woman, but Christine had always appreciated her no-nonsense approach when confronting the world. The woman seemed to carry herself with such grace and dignity, despite suffering such tragedy. During the 1918 influenza outbreak, Antoinette lost her husband, Meg's father. Since that great loss, Antoinette had never worn anything but black, making a stark contrast between her daughter's bright and bubbly exterior and her stern, yet proud one.

Madame Giry had always shown Christine nothing but kindness. After Christine lost her father, Antoinette opened her home and paid the cost for Christine's boat to America, even going so far as to secure a job for Christine.

"Look at you, Christine. You get more beautiful every year." Madame Giry gave a rare, open smile.

"Madame, I cannot thank you enough for all of this. I would be lost without your family." Christine was overwhelmed with gratitude.

"Nonsense, child." Madame Giry waved her hand dismissively. "If anything, you are giving me something I have always wanted…another daughter." She straightened up, suddenly all business. "Now, let us take you out for a meal and show you a bit of the neighborhood."

The rest of the afternoon was spent walking the Greenwich Village neighborhood. The highlight of the evening being the stroll through Washington Square park where they saw a man feeding birds. Meg and Christine giggled when the man handed them some birdseed and they were immediately bombarded with a hungry flock of pigeons. "Flying rats", Meg said.

There was much more of New York City to see, it made Christine feel as though she were standing within an immense forest of buildings. Some were taller than any she had ever seen in her life, taller than even the Eiffel Tower. She had been told by a fellow passenger on the boat coming into New York harbor that the tallest building was the Woolworth Building, standing over fifty-eight stories tall. The evidence of new construction was rampant, the city felt like a growing, pulsating organism that was rapidly evolving. It felt like such a mercurial thing, the city you knew today would not be the city you wake up to the next day. A person could live their whole like in a place such as this and never truly see everything, the thought was both enthralling and daunting. A city such as this could harbor so many secrets, contain so many mysteries.

They supped an early dinner at an outdoor table of a darling corner café, a simple meal followed with coffee and dessert.

"Madame Giry, I am curious to hear about this job. You say it's in a nightclub?" Christine queried.

Madame Giry nodded, but hesitated. "Yes. It has all been arranged, however, there is one thing you ought to know before you accept." Christine nodded in acquiescence. Madam Giry looked her straight in the eye and said, "You will have to be willing to ignore the blatant breaking of law. I understand if this makes you uncomfortable, if so we can seek to find you employment elsewhere. This was an easy position to acquire as I already am acquainted with the club's owner"

Christine was now giving Madame Giry her full and undivided attention. "I don't understand…"

Madame Giry presented a knowing smirk and dropped her voice conspiratorially to avoid outside listeners "Well, my dear. I am not sure if you are aware, but alcohol is prohibited in America. You would be working in a famously upscale speakeasy."

Christine gasped in sheer delight, whispering back. "Oh! I've never been paid to break the law before! It sounds wonderfully exciting."

She could not have understood then, at that moment, sitting with her only two friends in the whole world on that city sidewalk on a warm early summer evening, that her life was on the precipice of something enormous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Fun fact, Gaston Leroux died April 27, 1927. I did not realize that when I chose the year for this fiction. It just ended up a happy coincidence.


	2. The Gilded Cage

Chapter Two: The Gilded Cage

The sun was warm on Christine’s sleepy visage when she woke, the morning light streaming in through the lace curtains onto her bed. The metallic screech and rumble of the streetcar, the loud growls of automobiles and the chatter of pedestrians could be heard through the glass pane of the window. City sounds had never seemed to concern Christine, there was a sort of peace she felt with the humdrum of a large city population, a though a person was being wrapped in a safe cocoon of humanity’s sound. Like strange music, she thought.

She stretched out on the bed, gazing at the ceiling in an attempt to wake up, noticing a spot on the plaster on the ceiling above her that the light hit just right to resemble a face. The face was grinning at her as though it knew a terribly scandalous secret, one that was too explicit to say aloud. What cheeky bit of gossip do you know, my plaster friend? She silently asked.

The sounds of china and silverware wafting down the hallway summoned her from her warm bed. Tying herself into a light robe, she left the room and padded down the hallway where the Giry women waited to serve her breakfast. Meg sitting pertly at the small dining table, already dressed for the day, while Madame exited the kitchen with a plate of toast and fruit for Christine.

“She emerges!” Meg declared, too full of energy for so early in the day. “Did you sleep well? I’m surprised you didn’t wake you up sooner. I can’t sleep in that bed; I would wake up cursing and shaking my fist full of hate at the almighty sun.”

Christine cocked an eyebrow as she worked on setting herself up with a cup of tea. “You? Full of hate? I’d pay good money to see such a sight. I found the sun to be a most gracious morning greeter, thank you.”

“Meg, please eat your breakfast. We do have to be at the Metropolitan within the hour.” Mme Giry insisted before turning to Christine with a slip of paper. “Here is the address, directions and instructions for the club you are going to. Ask for Arthur, I’m told he will accustom you to the job.” 

Christine took a deep breath and accepted the slip of paper. “Thank you so very much. I admit I am a bit nervous, but I suppose it’s just first day jitters.” She sipped the paper into the pocket of her robe.

The rest of breakfast was a brief affair, ending with the fast blur of the Girys assembling themselves to leave for the Opera for the day. The event was so hurried, the quick and fond farewells so rushed, leaving Christine a bit startled by how quiet the apartment felt when she was suddenly standing alone in her robe. She reached her hand into her pocket and pulled out the paper. She was requested to arrive earlier on this particular day in order to introduce her to the duties of her position before her shift, it would be a long day. Time to start the first day of this new adventure, she silently proclaimed.

In the bedroom closet where she had hung the sad few dresses she owned, but there was one new dress she had purchased for this very day. Her attempt at making a good impression. The dress was made of violet embroidered voile, lined with a silk sash that cut around the dropped waist, its sleeves reached her elbows and were accented with silk ties. The material was thin and draped her body in a flattering manner but required a slip so as to not be overly transparent. 

She fixed her supple blonde, chin-length hair in the bathroom mirror, pleased to see her brushed and styled curls were making the waves that were so in fashion at the time. Her lips were delicately smudged with a wine lipstick, her lashes accented with a bit of cake mascara. 

“You can do this, Christine. It’s just like the first day of school, it will seem new, but eventually you will meet people and learn new things.” She said to her reflection.

Collecting her purse, ensuring the slip of paper from Mme Giry was tucked inside, she put on her stalwart pair of kitten heeled pumps and headed towards the streetcar. 

The directions to the club were fairly straightforward, the streetcar would take her to its last stop at 59th street. She would know she was there because it was located across the street from the famous Central Park. Her final destination, the club, would be located on 59th only a few blocks from the streetcar’s stop. Mme Giry had informed Christine of the unlikelihood that she would ever meet the owner but assured that a man named Arthur would help accustom her to the tasks of the job.

“Last Stop, Fifty-Ninth Street. Central Park!” The streetcar operator bellowed and rang a loud brass bell. 

She joined with the throng of passengers quickly vacating, the sounds muddy symphony of footsteps and chatter filling the air as the crowd migrated towards the stairs leading to the street level. A delightful breeze tickled her face as she walked the short distance to the place that would become her new place of employment. 

Shortly she found herself looking at the entrance, an elegant sign on the outside had beautiful gold birdcage painted upon it with the words ‘The Gilded Cage’ in an elegant scroll. Odd, she has assumed a speakeasy would be more discreet, all passwords and secrets entrances, not blatant advertisement. 

The instructions on her paper said to look for a small button by the front door, the bell would alert Arthur of her arrival. A few seemingly long minutes later a young man opened the door. He was a lanky build, wearing a black dress shirt and well-made black slacks, his chestnut hair draped rakishly over his face and his smile was large and warm.

“You’re early! Miss Daaé, yes?” He greeted her, his demeanor nothing but bright.

“Yes, Arthur, is it? They only gave me a first name, I apologize.”

“Don’t fret! I prefer Arthur to Mr. Rackham, I’m not a stickler for formalities.” He assured her.

She smiled brightly. “In that case, please call me Christine.”

“Welcome to The Gilded Cage, Christine. Please do come in.” He gestured her to enter and locked the door once she was inside. 

The Gilded Cage was magnificent. The ambiance was utterly inviting and intoxicating, with warm electric lighting emitted from a large crystal chandelier hanging from the vaulted ceiling. accented the rich colors of red and gold. The walls were a deep mahogany and the floors an elaborate dark basket weave. One wall lined with private booths with dark red leather seating, the opposite wall was wrapped with an elegantly curved bar lined with tall red velvet stools. On the wall behind the ball hung a mirror with excessively ornate baroque style frame. At the end of the club was a small stage with a black grand piano and with several small tables and chairs set up before it, for shows Christine supposed. 

“Oh my…this is the most beautiful club I have ever been.” Christine sighed, suddenly feeling very out of place.

“We cater to a very high-end clientele, politicians, celebrities, aristocrats, socialites…it might take a minute to adjust to, but just remember to be respectful and not to gawk and you’ll fit right in.” Arthur looked Christine up and down momentarily. “First thing, though, we need to get you into a different dress. Come with me, it’s waiting in the back.” 

Christine was a bit confused but followed him anyway as they walked towards a hallway past the stage. “A different dress?”

“Yeah, you’re going to be dressed in black. But trust me, you’ll be glad of it, anything spilt on that darling dress of yours would be a shame.” He opened one of the doors in the hallway on the right. It was a small storage room, hanging on a hook was an elegant little black dress made of black crepe. “The boss got an estimate of your measurements from your friend Giry. Hopefully it works.” He handed took the dress from the hook and handed it to her.

Christine glanced at the tag and sucked in a breath “This is a Coco Chanel dress…”

“Well of course, who better to get a little black dress than the woman who invented it.” Arthur shrugged “I’ll leave you in here to change. Meet me at the bar when you are ready.”

Christine had never worn such an expensive garment, of course it fit perfectly, and she immediately fell head over heels for her new uniform. Her silhouette must look phenomenal. If I’m going to serve the well to do, I suppose I need to look the part, she thought. 

Arthur spent a few hours giving her a full tour and explaining her job, which consisted of taking orders from booths, running drinks in a timely manner, prepping drink garnishes and polishing glasses. The tasks were fairly straightforward, Arthur said they were starting her out with less responsibility until she had fully assimilated into the position. 

“If alcohol is illegal, how does a place such as this keep it’s doors open?” Christine timidly asked.

“Money talks, Christine.” Arthur chuckled. “You’ll see law enforcement in here sometimes, mostly highly decorated detectives, sometimes lawmakers too. Just because prohibition is in effect, doesn’t mean New York has gone dry.” He tied a black apron around his waist and tossed one to Christine. “The band will be here to set up in just a few minutes and then it’s opening time. Ready?”

Christine nodded. “I think I understand everything.”

“Don’t worry about it” Arthur assured her “You seem like a smart cookie; you’ll get into the flow of things in no time.”

From the hallway leading to the back entrance of the club, the entrance Arthur told Christine she would begin using to enter and exit, a few men carrying instrument cases emerged walking in the direction of the stage. The sounds of jazz instruments being set up and tuned quickly filled the space. Arthur exited the bar and made his way to the front entrance of the bar, flipping a latch he unlocked the front door.

The rest of the evening went by fairly smoothly, the band played upbeat and elegant tunes while patrons filled the space. Some guests stayed for one drink, some stayed for several. Christine lost count of the number of oranges and limes she wedged, couldn’t count how many glasses she washed and polished. Three times she went to a locked stockroom to fetch what was called a “Special #7”, which was code for a highly expensive bottle of imported Champagne. Several dozen bottles of the imported liquor were kept in a refrigerated locker with a combination code. Customers were polite, well-behaved, and always left her come coins when she removed their empty glasses. By the end of the evening she was feeling comfortable with this new position, it didn’t feel illicit at all, patrons were merry as though there was no such thing as Prohibition. France would never make illegal, Christine thought, that’s the sort of thing that would most certainly start another revolution.

By the time she made it back home that evening sleep was greedy to take her. Laying in her bed she looked up at the ceiling and noticed that the streetlight coming through the window that same spot of plaster on the ceiling resemble a different kind of face. This face looked like a man who was deep in sorrow, as though he couldn’t continue to hold the weight of the world any longer. She decided she did not like how this face made her feel. 

She rolled onto her side and quickly slipped into her slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I was really surprised during my research with how out in the open speakeasies were. You had famous club like the 300 club, the Stork Club, and the Cotton Club who were all serving alcohol during prohibition fairly out in the open.  
> Lawmakers, politicians, and the well to do were all openly breaking the law.


	3. Surprise, Surprise

Chapter 3: Surprise, Surprise

“It’s true! The choirmaster Gabriel said he saw him!” Meg vehemently insisted between bites of her breakfast, which was quickly growing cold. “He was dressed in evening wear and he had a face that looked like death!” 

The breakfast conversation had quickly turned to absurd ghost stories after Christine innocently inquired of her garrulous friend about her time at the Metropolitan Opera. 

Christine rolled her eyes. “An evening suit? Was he wearing a bow tie as well? Perhaps white spats?”

“Oh I don’t know about…hey! Don’t tease, I’m serious!” Meg sipped her tea “Very well, if there isn’t a ghost then explain why the managers leave Box Five empty every show.” She pointed shook her finger to elaborate “I heard it’s because the ghost demands it.”

“Eccentric aristocrat, perhaps? It certainly makes much more sense than some phantom spirit.”

Meg leaned in conspiratorially and whispered. “That’s exactly what my mother says, but I think she’s hiding something.”

“Alright, little Meg.” Mme Giry chimed in as she emerged from the other room, reaching down to collect empty breakfast plates from the table. “That is enough childish nonsense for this morning. You are a Prima Ballerina not a schoolgirl.” 

Meg shook her head and leaned in one more time towards Christine. “I’m telling you, something strange is going on.” Receiving a stern look from Mme Giry she quickly ended it there. 

The Girys performed the same frantic dance of readying to leave the house that they did every morning, before long the door was closing, and Christine was left standing in an empty apartment. 

With more free time before her shift at the club, Christine was anxious to see more of the city. Her first sightseeing adventure would be the famous Central Park, she had heard there were spots in the park that a person could stand and feel as though they were not standing in the center of a city at all. 

Quickly readying for the day, donning her black work dress and fetching her purse she headed to the streetcar. 

Central Park was the largest, most well laid out park Christine had ever seen. She spent a few hours walking tree lined trails, crossing small bridges, sitting beside fountains, admiring ducks in ponds and watching other people going about their day. She came upon a busker playing a fiddle, sitting down in the grass she began to think about her father. In her youth, she would travel with her father from town to town playing in fairs. Those halcyon years felt as though they were spun with light and gold, the world felt whole, life was serene and unburdened. Music and travel and new faces were the only things that mattered, as though they could live on those things alone. Living with the grief of losing a parent is like standing waist-deep in the surf, the waves keep coming but there are peaceful lulls between. Christine is certain the grief will always be there with her, silently residing within her memories, curling its delicate fingers around a small portion of her heart, slithering out when she least suspects.

The fiddler reached the last long note of a third song. Christine stood, reaching into her purse she withdrew a nickel and tossed it into the fiddler’s hat. He gave a polite bow, raised his fiddle to his chin and began another rapid fire song. The song followed her as she made her way down another trail, the sweet sound of the fiddle tracing the air around her as it slowly faded to a gentle caress, she thought of tender memories with her father. Her woolgathering nearly caused her to walk right by a familiar face. 

Sitting on a bench, hunched over a little leather notebook writing furiously with a stub of a pencil, was Arthur. His chestnut hair falling over his face as he chewed on his lip in deep thought. Christine hesitated about approaching him, so wrapped in thought he seemed, but she shook her head and took the few remaining steps in his direction. 

“Hello, Arthur.” She shyly greeted, his head jerked up, his furrowed brow quickly melted away and his face lit up with an enthusiastic smile.

“Christine!” 

“I’m sorry if I’m intruding, I know I’ll see you in a half hour at the club, but it seemed terribly rude to walk by and not stop to say hello.” 

“No intrusion at all. You’re actually doing me quite the favor, I’ve been struggling with this one sentence for the past hour. I need to stop for the day.” He closed the notebook and tucked it into his inner jacket pocket. He patted the spot next to him on the bench in invitation.

“You’re a writer?” She joined accepted his invitation to sit on the iron bench.

“I try to be” He nonchalantly shrugged “Most New Yorkers have more than one gig.” 

“Have you anything published?” 

“A few written works, but they aren’t the most readily available.” He said allusively, then quickly changed the subject. “Are you enjoying the park?”  
“Oh yes! It’s bigger than I imagined. It’s remarkable the forethought that was put into placing this in the center of the city. It feels like an oasis from the busy noise and frantic hustle.”

Arthur hummed. “Yes, it’s my favorite place to come when I need to think. You know the designer of this park, Olmstead, had never designed or executed a landscape design before? Yet he won a design competition against a more experienced designer.” Christine looked very impressed, so he continued. “He eventually went on to design the landscape for the Chicago Exposition, you know, the one with the first Ferris wheel.”

“I’ve never been on a Ferris Wheel! Meg says they have one at Coney Island.” 

“The Wonder Wheel is a blast, but I won’t dare attempt that new Roller Coaster they’re opening soon. Not my idea of fun, if you ask me.” He stood up and offered Christine her hand to stand. “Shall we make our way to work?” Christine accepted and stood.

The evening shift went by even smoother than that previous evening, the band playing jovial jazz sounds until 11pm. At one point in the evening Christine noticed a young man who sat at the bar for hours, occasionally stealing Arthur’s attention, it seemed they knew one another but were attempting to keep it hidden. 

As the night wound down and the patrons slowly trickled out into the night and into the city, the young man remained. Arthur leaned far over the bar towards the gentleman, said something that Christine couldn’t hear, and the man stood up and started heading towards the exit. Arthur exited from behind the bar.

“Christine, I’ll be back in a bit. Just finish up polishing the rest of those glasses.” He followed the man out the front exit before Christine had a chance to respond. That was odd.

She turned towards the mirror, diligently rubbing the water stains off a row of glasses, when movement caught her attention. Her eyes shot up to see the reflection of a very tall, thin man dressed in a crisp tuxedo standing behind her on the other side of the bar, his hair raven and well styled, his bright eyes making direct contact with hers. The feature that made her heart truly leap in her chest was the presence of a bone white mask covering the top portion of his face, ending just above his thin upper lip. 

The club was supposed to be empty; Arthur had gone who knows where, and Christine had no idea why a man would need a mask unless he was here for some nefarious purpose. Her hand snatched the small paring knife used for slicing citrus that was resting on the counter next to her, spinning around she held it up at him with a violently shaky hand. 

Placing his elegantly slender hands on his hips, cocking his head to the side quizzically and looking at her in amusement, the man opened his mouth and spoke. 

“Mademoiselle Daaé, do you make it a habit of greeting all your employers this way?” His words had a playful levity about them, but oh, that voice! His voice was like warm honey, smooth and rich, like vocal sorcery, she felt it penetrating her very bones.

Christine stood there, mouth agape like a sad guppy, unaware she was brandishing a knife. There was too much to process. First, he was her employer? Second, she had to combat whatever magic spell that voice had just seemed to put her under. She stood there, arm still raised, hand still clutching the pathetic knife.

He continued, seemingly undisturbed with the sharp, quivering blade pointed in his direction. “If you insist to continue with this threat, you may as well know you are holding that weapon incorrectly.” He sighed, his gold eyes narrowing in annoyance “Honestly, girl, your wrist is compromised in that position, you will only have that blade knocked from your hand. Hold the knife in the opposite direction, pointed down. When you attack, lift your arm up and stab downward, be sure to aim for the face and neck of your target.”

Christine looked down at her hand as though it was a foreign object she did not recognize. She quickly lowered her arm and placed the knife onto the bar as though she was scolding it.

“I am terribly sorry!” Her words were rapid, with a quiver running through them. “I didn’t know!” Her hand flew to her mouth, her eyes large. “This is so embarrassing.”

At this he flashed her a smile, his canine teeth were sharp giving his grin a wolfish quality. Christine decided she found it quite charming. “Have no fear, Mademoiselle. I am quite relieved my new employee is will to go to such lengths to defend my humble establishment.” He was clearly having a bit of fun at her expense. “I suppose Arthur left with his ‘friend’?”

Christine nodded. “Yes, how did you know? He said he would return shortly…”

He made a dismissive gesture. “I know all that occurs in my world, Mademoiselle Daaé. However, it is not Arthur I am here for.” He pulled an envelope from the pocket of his tailcoat. “Please deliver this to Madame Giry, she is expecting it.”

Christine held her hand out and tentatively accepted the thin parcel. 

“I will, and please…call me Christine.” She gave a polite smile. “Also…I would like to thank you, for the opportunity to work and for the dress…”

He waved her words away. “Madame Giry spoke highly of you, it is she whom you should be thanking.” He looked her up and down “As for the dress, I insist all my employees look the part. However,” His voice dropped. “The dress suits you; you look...lovely.”

Christine blushed crimson. The man silently turned on his heel to walk towards the hallway with the stock room, as though fleeing from the compliment he just gave, stopping and turning around once more, his yellow hued eyes meeting here.

“One more thing, Christine” He paused, her name pure music with that voice “Erik…” He took a deep breath then clarified. “You may call me Erik.” 

With that he disappeared down the hallway with long, graceful strides, presumably entering one of the few doors that were always locked. 

“Erik…” Christine whispered aloud.

A few minutes later Arthur emerged from the back exit, looking flustered. 

“My apologies, Christine. My friend can be incredibly…needy of my time.” Arthur said distractedly, slightly out of breath. “Everything is alright?” He noticed the white letter in her hand. “What’s that?” He gestured towards the envelope.

“Erik gave it to me; it’s for the woman I live with.” She said slightly dazed, as though his acknowledgment of the envelope confirmed she had not just imagined a tuxedo wearing man in a mask. 

Arthur burst out in a laugh. “So, you’ve met Erik! That’s rare…You probably won’t see him very much, but now your expression says it all. He has a habit of sneaking up on people, I’m fairly certain his feet never hit the ground.” 

That evening when Christine laid her head on her pillow she thought about Erik’s mask. Surely, he has his reasons for wearing it…

She looked up at the plaster spot on the ceiling, the man looked down at her in sorrow. Christine frowned, turned onto her side and slipped off to sleep with thoughts of that butter and molasses voice saying her name.


	4. Boo!

Chapter Four: Boo!

The masked gentleman was unable to recall the last time he had a moment of genuine mirth but standing in front of the little Daaé woman holding that pitiable little blade, her hand quivering like a jelly, he found it quite necessary to practice restraint. He had nearly laughed right there in the poor woman’s face but that may have served to further frighten to little thing. Walking down the hallway he allowed himself an indulgent, yet silent chuckle before entering the stockroom. 

The busy pattern of the wallpaper in this room served a practical purpose. Crossing the room, he reached up to an inconspicuous spot on the strip of crown molding running along the wall, pressing down there was gentle click and a door swung open. Employees entered this room daily, yet not one would suspect the hidden passage hidden here, and why would they, it isn’t as though secret entryways are commonplace.

A rush of cool, stale air potent with the scent of damp concrete assaulted his senses as he entered the pitch-black passage and latched the door behind him. A true master of his domain, he needed no aid of light to guide his progress down the narrow flight of stairs to the lower level of passageways.

Erik had spent the past few years planning and building a complex system of underground tunnels and passageways which connected to a number of buildings. New York was going through a process of tremendous change; buildings were sprouting up like dandelions and subways systems were being rapidly developed. With construction projects being a city-wide norm, it was almost absurd the ease with which Erik was able to create his underground labyrinth. One only needed to swap out construction workers with frequency to avoid too many nosey questions, but there was a large percentage of work he was required to accomplish alone, such as secret doorways and the final connection of some passages. 

These tunnels obeyed his every whim. Naturally there were traps, which he alone could safely deactivate. A person would have to be quite foolish to try to make their way down here in this world of secrets within secrets, which is precisely the reason he built his full-time home down here. Living below kept the outside where it belonged. However, having one’s home below ground does have its inconveniences, moving a piano, for instance, is no easy feat, thus he was required to assemble one by hand below ground. And of course, expensive tastes can be a burden on one’s friends. Nadir cursed him multiple times the night Erik insisted he assist with the hauling of heavy furniture and three burdensome Persian rugs through the maze of tunnels, “I will not live like a philistine.” He had told Nadir.

Ah, Nadir. Let us not forget about him again. Erik remembered his upcoming appointment with his long-time acquaintance. He moved to disarm the one corridor his partner was permitted to utilize. With that task completed, Erik accessed the entrance to his home. 

His weakness for red, black and gold was evident within his abode. As with his club above, he made use of only the finest mahogany wood and parquet flooring for his charming little flat. Though humble of size, his apartment was made of only the best materials. His sitting room featured a gas fireplace framed by a black marble mantel, his polished grand piano, red velvet set of chaise lounge with matching chairs, a mahogany table and a large drafting desk. The other rooms in the home, bedroom, lavatory, bathing suite and kitchen, all were treated with the same attention to detail. He even included a guest lavatory for Nadir as sharing his personal bathing suite with the pesky Persian seemed too intimate. 

Sitting himself at his desk, he went to task making a list of instructions. He had nearly completed when the entrance to his flat silently opened to reveal the man whom he had been expecting.

Nadir was only slightly older than Erik, of a fairly average height, trim of build, and broad of shoulder. His hair a sharp black, neatly clipped, his cappuccino hued face clean shaven. The Persian had piercing jade eyes, tinted with the wariness that comes from holding the sorrow of past tragedy. His sense of style lay more towards the practical, today he wore a brown wool suit and his trademark Astrakhan hat, which Erik had insisted on numerous occasions he refrain from wearing. “It makes you quite conspicuous.” He had told Nadir.

“I appreciate you remembering our meeting this week, Erik.” Nadir, knowing his prickly friend did not participate in the common protocol of social etiquette, had stopped with the tradition greeting long ago. “I seemed to have made it down here without issue this time.”

“Ah, well it is a terrible inconvenience when I am required to remove you from a trap, my dear Daroga.” Erik replied, eyes never leaving his papers. 

“Your concern for my wellbeing is, as always, overwhelming.” Nadir dryly retorted “My ankle is healing, by the way. I’m sure you were wondering.”

“Thank God. I was positively losing sleep over it.” Erik admitted, sarcasm dripping heavy from every word. “Oh, don’t look at me like that.” He scoffed. “The security mechanisms in your personal corridor are intended to be deterrents only, they are not lethal like the pitfalls I have set in the other passageways. Believe it or not, I do not wish to fatally wound you, after all, who would run my errands? Speaking of, here is a list of items I need.”

Nadir sighed and accepted the slip of paper. “The 300 Club was raided two nights ago.”

“That is because Texas Guinan is a fool. She ought to go back to acting, not managing a club. That establishment will not endure. Her behavior is reckless, throwing large public galas the way she does, she may as well throw it right in the face of the authorities.”

Texas Guinan had opened the 300 Club only a few blocks away from The Gilded Cage only a year previously. She had taken a break from performing as an actress in film and Broadway shows to open the club. She was known for her soprano voice which Erik did not find the least bit impressive, “Cats in heat have a better vocal range”, He had once told Nadir. Since the day the doors opened at the 300 club it had faced issues with the authorities, most likely due to Guinan’s proclivity towards making every night one giant party. Every night scantily clad fan-toting dancers would rub themselves against the patrons as they imbibed contraband beverages, that was the sort of crass revelry Erik would absolutely not permit within his own club. Additionally, all the famous silent film actors preferred the 300, bringing all the tediously tabloid drama that comes with them. That sort of attention was the very reason Texas Guinan had been arrested a handful of times, the doors to the 300 club temporarily padlocked, but like a stubborn weed the club would reopen its doors with each of Guinan’s acquittals. Her arrests were practically publicity for her club, but Erik knew it could only last for so long.

“I heard Clara Bow was there the other night.” Nadir said nonchalantly, as though he did not have a mild fascination with the famous “It” girl. 

“Good, I prefer to keep all that Hollywood riff raff where it belongs. We are not in this business to become a ‘Who’s Who’. There is already enough of that nonsense at the Opera, but at least it is somewhat tolerable there.” Erik tapped his fingers on the desk impatiently. “Besides, even if Guinan was not loudly parading her blatant disregard for the law in New York’s face, she does not have the protections in place that we do.”

“Yes, about that.” Nadir started; his voice edged with concern. “Something has happened. One of our runners was found dead this evening…”

“That is not too unusual, runners get themselves into all sorts of predicaments.” Erik said dismissively, flicking his wrist in a flippant gesture.

“That isn’t everything, Erik. He was found with Joe Stromberg and some uniformed officer…they were all found dead”

Erik’s head snapped up and he shot a fierce gaze at Nadir. “Under what circumstances?”

“It seems as though they were all brutally stabbed. It doesn’t appear they were killed in the same location; it almost appears as though they were killed at different times and moved there.”

This development was indeed concerning. Joe Stromberg was one of their forms of protection. Stromberg was a prohibition officer, well respected, who had commanding power in his force. For years Stromberg had been accepting lucrative compensation in exchange for turning his gaze away from Erik’s activities, but the The Gilded Cage wasn’t the masked man’s main business. Erik and Nadir had been capitalizing on the American Prohibition for years and had set up an enviable operation importing the finest European liquors into the city and selling it in bulk to reputable buyers. Their operation was so stealthy they had avoided detection from most of the big organized crime syndicates, and Joe was a big key to that.

“Where were the bodies found?”

Nadir took a shaky breath. “That is where it gets odd. They were found behind the Metropolitan Opera and Joe Stromberg had a rather cryptic note pinned to his body.”

“What did the note say?”

“Boo.”

Erik and Nadir stared silently at one another for several moments. “That is indeed cryptic.” Erik mused. 

“Do you have an idea what it could mean?” 

Erik scoffed. “Not in the slightest. It is certainly not any prohibition slang that I am aware of.” He ran a hand through this hair. “In the meantime, keep your eyes and ears out for any more developments. This may be isolated, but something feels wrong.” 

Nadir nodded and headed towards to exit. 

“And one more thing, Daroga…” Erik said, to which Nadir stopped and turned around with raised eyebrows “Do please stop wearing that hat, you stick out like a proverbial sore thumb.”

Nadir shook his head, grasped the hat from atop his head and tossed it into the waste bin on his way out the door. Insufferable man. Nadir sighed to himself.

Erik rolled his eyes at the scene as the door closed behind the Persian. Such theatrics. He thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: While doing my research I discovered a fun Phantom related tidbit.
> 
> In 1928 Lon Chaney Sr. (Star of the 1925 silent version of The Phantom of the Opera), filmed a movie called The Big City. The filmmakers created a full scale replica of Texas Guinan's 300 Club to stage parts of the movie. Most prominently a scene featuring a holdup takes place within the reproduced club.
> 
> I just love all the fun little connections I make with my research.


	5. Who are you, Monsieur?

Chapter five: Who are you, Monsieur?

Saturday came the following day. The Gilded Cage was busier than it had been all week, "Folks are trying to get their sinning done before Sunday.", Arthur said. The musicians seemed to play with more gusto, the boisterous blowing of brass instruments and snazzy drums cutting through the thick layers of chatter, laughter and clinking of glasses. Cigarette smoke, the odor of illicit alcohol and a mix of various perfume hung like a heavy miasma in the club.

Arthur never appeared to have a day off, but insisted he preferred it that way. "I get into trouble when I have idle hands." He told Christine in his chipper nonchalance which she had come to appreciate.

"How is your writing coming along?" Christine queried as she wiped down a spill on the bar.

"Fantastic, another masterpiece sent to the presses." He said wryly.

"Oh! I would love to read it!"

To this he chuckled, his handsome smile lighting up his face like a neon sign. "I don't think it's your genre, Christine."

"You couldn't possibly know that." Christine defiantly placed her hands on her hips. "What genre is it?"

"Just trust me on this, sweetheart."

Before the mild argument could continue, they were interrupted.

"The corner booth is getting to rowdy, Arthur. Probably time to cut them loose." Said the mousey haired woman named Regina.

Regina only worked Fridays and Saturdays but had an unnamed engagement the previous evening and therefore permitted an absence from her shift. Christine immediately liked the curvaceous brunette who had a no-nonsense attitude and was unafraid to speak her mind.

"Alright, don't accept any more orders from them. If they give you any grief, we'll have the muscle handle them. Tell them they can always go to one of those more disreputable holes by the piers if they want to have a night free from class." Arthur replied. 'The muscle' was a reference to Keenan, the large man who sat in a corner close to the entrance and acted as security for the busiest stretches of the evenings.

As though it had been scripted the occupants from the table in question gathered their things and made their way as a collective group towards the exit, walking with disjointed, drunken swaggers. It was as if they had sensed their time had come. As the group was exiting, they were replaced with a fresh new party of well-dressed patrons making their way in.

Regina rejoiced with a relieved breath. "Well aren't I a lucky gal? Looks like I don't have to be the bad guy tonight." I'm going to go clean up that table. Christine, will you take care of this new crowd?"

Christine nodded and watched the five gentlemen settle into one of the elegant booths in the amber lit club. Grabbing her note pad she quickly made her way towards them, catching bits of their conversation as she approached.

All the faces at the table were aimed her direction as she approached. The men all appeared to be young, early twenties and ostentatiously dressed in expensive finery. Bright, confident eyes full of eagerness were all pointing at her, as though Christine alone held the key to their evening of enjoyment.

Christine inquired about their evening and asked to take their order, doing so in French. The faces of the men lit up like incandescent bulbs upon hearing their native tongue. A rapid firing of enthusiastic beverage requests rained in her direction and she fervently scribbled them down on her notepad.

One of the men looked at her with a curious expression that she was not able to quite read.

Back at the bar Christine handed her order slip to Arthur who glanced once at it, quirked his eyebrow, they asked playfully. "What the hell does this say?" He held up the slip by one corner and thrust his arm out towards Christine.

"Oh sorry, that's French. I was taking the order down so quickly I didn't have time to translate in my head. Here." She scribbled down the same order on a new slip in English and handed it to the impressed bartender.

"I always noticed you have a little bit of an accent, but not much of one, so I never asked." He began lining up a row of rock glasses. "So, you're French?"

"My mother was English; my father was Swedish. And I lived in France for a few years. I'm a polyglot." She explained.

"A what?"

"I speak more than two languages." She grabbed a tray and began to load the drinks.

"I have enough trouble with just the one, I can't imagine having three languages swimming around in my head. That's too many words and that's saying a lot coming from a guy who writes."

"I still want to read your writing. I'm serious!" Christine insisted, bringing up their previous conversation, Arthur just dismissed her to go deliver the drinks.

Making her way back to the five gentlemen with the heavy tray of beverages, her arm aching from the weight, the glasses rattling together with every step. She noticed that same young man was still scrutinizing her with big blue eyes, as though he were attempting to solve some great mystery, it made her thoroughly uncomfortable.

She dropped her eyes shyly from the heavy gaze and quickly set the drinks onto the table.

One of the men leaned in towards her and said, "You know, our friend over there," He gestured to the staring blue-eyed man. "Just accepted a promotion. We want to celebrate the grand occasion, but typically such an evening calls for Champagne…we understand how difficult it is to obtain here in the states, but are hoping this establishment may be able to accommodate?"

Christine nodded and smiled. "Yes, we can. I will have it out for you shortly" She looked at the man in question, who was still thoughtfully gazing at her while his friends were oblivious to the entire exchange and said "Congratulations." His eyes seemed to widen for a bit. There was a strange look of something in the depths of those cobalt orbs, but Christine was turning on her heels and heading towards the storage room before anything could come of it. She strode down the hall with a familiar melody of a song trailing behind her, the band was playing an upbeat, ritzy version of "Me and my Shadow."

She entered the storage room singing along with the song, the sound of her voice reverberating against the walls of the room with a tinny ring. Unlocking the refrigerated vault she stepped in, searching for the extremely expensive bottle of imported French Champagne. With a heavy sigh she realized she did not see any free bottles on the shelf. Just my luck. She thought, but glancing down she noticed a slim, narrow crate sitting on the floor of the vault before her.

Gently prying one board up with her fingers, she saw the label of the bottle she sought peeking out. A pleased smile brightened her face and her song returned with more energy. She began to pry two more boards off the crate, singing as she worked.

A splinter embedded itself deeply under one of her fingernails and she let out a short cry. She examined it, a nasty little piece of wood that she could see though her nail, a drop of blood forming at the tip of her finger. It would be painful to remove but would have to wait until she had more time.

Gently removing one of the bottles from the shredded packing material of the crate she turned around to leave the vault, but a tall dark figure stood behind her.

Christine let out a startled cry as her hands released the bottle of Champagne. The pricey bottle would have smashed violently onto the floor had a long, elegant and pale hand not deftly captured it.

Her hands covered her face in mortification as she let out a terrible groan of embarrassment, face turning a furious shade of crimson.

A low chuckle penetrated her haze of humiliation and her eyes shot up to see the source of the sound observing her with levity.

"I apologize for once again startling you, Miss Daaé." Erik said with a sharp toothed grin, mirth alight in his eyes.

"Really? I'm starting to believe you enjoy the torment." She retorted. "We ought to put a bell on you." She looked around "Where did you even come from? I didn't hear the storage door open."

"Why through the wall, naturally." He grinned again.

Christine rolled her eyes, not amused by his relentless teasing. Through the wall, how absurd! "Did you need something of me?" She inquired, sounding more impatient than she ought to.

He stood there before her and stroked his thin chin thoughtfully before saying lazily, "No, nothing in particular, only satisfying a curiosity." He handed her the bottle of Champagne before stepped out of the vault.

Christine accepted it with her uninjured hand and closed the vault as she made her exit.

"Please, allow me to look." He gestured towards her hand and she acquiesced. With cool, slender fingers he lifted her left hand up and carefully inspected her index finger. "I can remove this for you, but I need to get the right instruments. Go deliver that bottle and come back here."

"Thank you." Christine nodded, her stomach doing flips. There was something frightfully magnetic about this unique man who seemingly moved about the world without sound. His eyes were like amber pools full of mystery. "I ought to get back, a table is waiting for me."

He wordlessly gestured a dismissal and she felt his gaze on her as she exited the room.

Christine took the prized bottle back to the bar where Regina was diligently polishing glasses.

"Regina, could you deliver this to my table? I have a splinter under my nail, and I need to take a moment to properly remove it."

"Let me see." Arthur took Christine's hand and made a grimace when he saw the sharp spear of wood through her translucent fingernail. "Ouch, how are you going to get that out? Looks deep and torturous."

"Erik said he will remove it."

Both Regina and Arthur started at the news, it seems an appearance from Erik was a rare thing around here. "He's here?" Arthur asked in surprise. "Twice in one week. That's unusual. I never see him come and go, but somehow you've managed to have two encounters in your first week of employment." He made an ambivalent shake of his head.

"I assure you; our encounters are not enviable. They only serve to provide him with amusement at my expense."

She left the bottle in Regina's capable hands and went back to the storage room. Where Erik was sitting on a crate with a slim black leather case of instruments unzipped and opened on his lap. Sitting at his feet was a beautifully embroidered silk cushion. Where the cushion and tools came from was not obvious, but Christine decided she would have to adapt to enigmatic occurrences when it came to her new employer.

He gestured to the cushion for Christine to sit which she accepted.

"I will be required to trim your nail down." He stated with the smooth objectivity of a scientist while showing a pair of trimmers held in his left hand. He's left-handed. Christine observed.

Erik made efficient, painless work with snipping her nail down to the quick. He retired the clippers and selected a different instrument from the kit.

"This will hurt a bit, but I will be quick about it. The splinter is too far embedded, I will need to dig a portion of it out." He spoke with all the confidence of a seasoned surgeon and Christine could not understand why, but she felt immediately trusting of this man.

There was a sharp, burning pain what lasted for a moment then the feeling of relief as the painful pressure of the foreign object was relinquished. Erik turned to fetch a small glass sitting beside his leg on the crate and quickly dipped her fingertip into the clear liquid contained within. The wound on her finger tingled and bubbled, a peroxide solution for cleansing the injury.

He released her hand and zipped up the medical kit. "I heard you singing, Miss Daaé. That is why I was in this room. I assure you, I do not wish to habitually frighten you."

"You heard me? How?" She asked

"I told you. I know everything that occurs within my realm." He obliquely retorted, but suddenly his eyes were hitting her with a penetrating gaze. She felt as though this is how a butterfly must feel when it is captured and pinned to a board, those eyes were so direct. "You should be singing, Miss Daaé. Your voice is…ethereal."

She snorted and his mouth turned down at the sound. He was not teasing her now; he was deathly serious, she realized.

"You cannot be serious." Christine replied. "I've tried out for choruses and have been denied."

"Clearly they are imbeciles who could not recognize the gift before them." He stated simply, as though his word was final. "You are untrained, but even so, your instrument is perfect. Beautiful…like a clear ringing bell on a crisp spring morning."

Christine was speechless, unsure how to respond to this sudden candor and highly uncomfortable with the level of praise presented to her.

"We will discuss this more later." He declared as though he had just determined something of important enormity. "Keep that finger clean."

"Thank you…I am grateful." She said in a daze, confusion reigning supreme in her thoughts as she made her short journey back to the bar, reeling from yet another odd interaction with Erik.

Regina looked excited when Christine returned. "Prince Charming over there has been asking about you." She indicated the table full of French men. "He wants to talk to you, he seems insistent." She waggled her eyebrows at Christine and flashed a suggestive smile.

Christine heaved a tired sigh and reluctantly moved towards the table where the golden-haired Frenchman with the incessant eyes sat among his friends sipping their celebratory drinks. He stood up when she approached, an ecstatic smile on his handsome face.

"I figured it out!" He said to Christine with sheer delight. "Little Lotte!"

Christine quirked an eyebrow at him. Little Lotte was a part of an old Scandinavian tale her father used to tell her when she was a child, one of her favorites, in fact. Could this man have guessed she had Swedish ancestry? Was her accent noticeable?

"I apologize, Monsieur. I do not understand."

He seemed exasperated "Do you not remember me? From that summer by the sea?"

"I am terribly poor with faces, Monsieur. I do not remember you."

"Raoul! My name is Raoul de Chagny! I am the boy who rescued your scarf from the sea!" He was getting quite animated now. "Your father told us stories together…?"

She suddenly remembered, although if he had not mentioned the scarf, she would have not known who he was. She and her father had traveled extensively, she met many new faces along the way and telling stories was a regular occurrence with her father.

"Of course,…Raoul." She feigned remembrance of the name. "I see you are well."

"I have thought of you many times over the years, Christine!" He seemed appeased now. "I am residing here now; we must see one another again!"

"I work here most days; this is where you may find me." She tried to politely end this conversation, feeling guilt by his admission of remembering her all these years while she only truly remembered a blond boy holding a saltwater drenched scarf.

He nodded enthusiastically "Yes! I forget you are working; I'll not detain you any further." He grabbed her hand and gave a gentlemanly kiss, ignorant of the pain he caused when he touched the tip of the injured finger. "We shall see each other again soon, Little Lotte."

Christine returned to the bar where Arthur and Regina were watching the whole scene with rapt fascination.

"What did Romeo want?" Arthur asked "He was getting awfully familiar with you over there. Kind of cute in a dumb puppy dog, kind of way." He drawled as he poured a drink.

"He remembers me from when we were children, but I feel so terrible because I nearly don't remember him." Christine confessed "Save from this one brief memory of a little boy fetching my errant red scarf from the ocean."

Regina put a hand on a hip and cocked an eyebrow. "A red scarf?"

"Yes. I remember he acted like such a hero, but I always hated that scarf. It was made of this terrible course wool at made my neck terribly itchy…He was doing me a disservice by rescuing it, truthfully." Christine sighed. "Somehow he remembers me all these years and insists we become reacquainted." The idea did not seem appealing to Christine.

"Why not? He seems rich and handsome…and all those things while being young!" Regina asked "I mean, you should just send him my way. I don't mind having a fling with gent with some funds." She grabbed a tray a drinks and swiftly left to tend to a table on the other side of the club.

Christine let out an audible sigh. The evening was proving to be far too eventful. She looked up at Arthur who was observing her with pity.

"You look overwhelmed." He said, the considered something before continuing. "I'll tell you what, as a consolation I'll tell you what my pen name is." He smirked. "But I doubt you'll find my books. They cater to a niche crowd."

Christine lit up. She had been pestering Arthur about reading his writing for days. And finally, she was going to have her clue.

An eventful evening indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I've been wanting to write this chapter since I started conceptualizing this fic.  
> I asked myself, what if Christine really didn't remember Raoul and was a little weirded out that he held a flame for her all these years? What if the scarf wasn't beloved?  
> I thought it would make for a very humorous encounter between the two characters.


	6. Roller Coasters By the Sea

Chapter Six: Roller Coasters by the Sea

The blinding sun splashed across Christine’s peacefully sleeping face. She rubbed her eyes and looked across the room towards Meg’s bed, which was still inhabited by a very tired ballerina. Both women were finally afforded a day of reprieve from their regular duties and had plans to spend the day together.

The gentle sounds of china clinking together greeted Christine as she entered the dining area. Mme Giry was laying out a selection of fresh pastries and a pot of coffee. 

“Good morning, Christine. I trust little Meg is still deep in the throes of sleep?” Mme Giry greeted with a warm rigidity. 

“Sleeping? Oh no, I’m fairly certain she may be dead.” Christine yawned and reached for the coffee pot. Since the evening she spent having a splinter removed from her nail she had been unable to cease thinking of her enigmatic employer, prompting her to take this moment to ask the older woman, “Madame, how you know Erik?”

Madame Giry paused and looked a Christine thoughtfully. “I suppose you could say he is a patron of the Opera.” She sat at the table and took a sip of her coffee. “He is also a composer, occasionally his works are performed at the Metropolitan. Why do you ask?” 

“I spoke to him again the other night. He is quite mysterious.” Christine tugged at her bottom lip with her teeth nervously before asking, “Do you know why he wears a mask?”

“No.” Mme Giry sharply replied. “But be sure never to ask him of it, he greatly values his privacy. He will not tolerate anything but total respect.” She added sternly. 

Christine nodded her head. Perhaps I should not have told Erik I wanted to place a bell around his neck like one would do to a pet cat…

Meg sauntered into the dining room like a tiny, optimistic queen. “Good morning, my ladies!” She announced brightly. “I am famished this morning. Christine, be sure to eat well, we have a bit of a trek to Coney Island today!”

The women had planned to venture to Brooklyn where they would spend the day at the famous amusement park and stroll the beach. July had quickly arrived, bringing with it a muggy heat that hung in the air like a wet down blanket, clinging to every person it touched. Folks were venturing out to Coney Island to escape the claustrophobic summer weather and ride the brand-new roller coaster, the Cyclone. 

The tiny prima ballerina sat herself at the table and proceeded to pile a healthy portion of sweet pastries. She continued to tell her breakfast audience of the plans for the day between ravenous mouthfuls of sweet bread. Meg’s effervescent personality was as contagious as a flu, one could not help but feel drawn into her joy. Christine needed that in her life. After her father’s death it felt as though she had to relearn how to smile. Her optimism seemed to keep her together most of the time. Still, some days she felt empty, like a husk of a woman walking through life trying to scoop up any morsel of joy she could find. 

“Well, if we see any bookstores, we simply must stop in.” Christine declared. For the past two days she had fruitlessly searched for the written works of one R. Ham. No book dealer she encountered had heard of such a writer and she was beginning to believe Mr. Arthur had pulled a fast one. He had mentioned the scarcity of his books, however, which was truly the one factor that kept her on her quest. Why all the mystery?

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

The sweltering train ride to Coney Island lasted a little over an hour yet felt like an eternity. Sandwiched like sardines in a little can, the two women furiously fanned themselves in a futile attempt to keep from melting into puddles on the floor of the train. 

“Someone really should invent a train car that keeps cool.” Meg grumbled. “I will surely break out into hives from this ungodly inferno.”

Without ceremony the door to the train opened at the arrival of their destination and the women made the mad dash with the rush of people scrambling to get off the oven parading as a subway car. The air that greeted them was delightfully cooler in temperature and they took a collective sigh of relief which resurrected their excitement for the day they had planned.

Christine had been to fairs, but nothing could have prepared her for Coney Island. The air was thick with the sounds of ringing bells, delighted screams, barkers advertising their games of chance and the tempting aroma of fried food. Looming high in the air was the famous Wonder Wheel, a Ferris wheel with carriages that slid along tracks as it spun. The fast, clattering sound of the new Cyclone roller coaster in operation cut easily through the loud and chaotic amusement park hubbub.

Meg grabbed Christine’s hand and yanked her towards the direction of the sound. “Come on, gal. We’re going on the Cyclone!”

They pushed their way through the crowd of park goers, rushing towards the impressive piece of wooden engineering. A roar of screams emitted from the train of cars as it plummeted a long, steep drop.

“On second thought…” Meg began. “Maybe not. Look at that! I’ll fly out of that thing, that drop is impossibly steep. That’s practically a free fall.” She started to reluctantly back away, but Christine grabbed her hand.

“Oh no you don’t, Meg Giry! You are going on that roller coaster with me!” She dragged Meg towards a little yellow ticket booth camped next to the long line awaiting the ride. Reaching into her handbag she retrieved the fifty cents for admission. “Two tickets for the cyclone, please!” She slid the two quarters under the window towards the attendant who wordlessly slid two little yellow tickets back with the face of a wide-mouthed, grinning man printed upon them. 

The women got into the long line, watching with ambivalent anticipation as the car sped around the tracks of the shining new Roller Coaster. Christine was full of excitement, but it was becoming obvious that Meg was beginning to grow cold feet every time the line moved closer to the ride.

“I don’t think I can do this, Christine. My heart is going to race out of my chest.” Meg bit her lip and watched as the group of people in line before them boarded the ride.

“That’s not true. You can do anything. Don’t back out now. Life is better with a little risk.”

“It’s easy for you to say, you’re one of the bravest people I know.” Christine’s brows furrowed in doubt but Meg placed a hand on Christine’s shoulder and looked her in the eyes. “Truly. You lost your only remaining parent and moved to a new country all by yourself, but you still manage to smile and try to kill me on roller coasters.” 

Christine felt a smile and a grateful tear upon her at once. “I appreciate that, but I didn’t move here by myself. I have your mother and yourself.”

Meg rolled her eyes. “Technicalities, you know what I mean. A lot of people would be falling apart right now, but not you. You’re probably the strongest woman in the world.”

“That’s not true.” Christine replied with a grin. “I saw a poster for her when we came in over by that the sideshow tent.”

Before Meg could respond the girls were ushered forward by a young man in a striped vest who took their tickets. Megs eyes grew as wide as saucers as they approached the shiny red cars of the train. 

“You ladies get the front, lucky you! It’s the best seat on the ride.” The man informed them with glee.

They situated themselves into the narrow cars, firmed seated on the smooth wooden seat. Striped vest leaned over and pulled a thin metal bar over their laps until it clicked into place.

Flabbergasted, Meg whipped her head towards the man with adject terror in her big, green eyes. “Is this all there is keeping us in here?!”

The man just chuckled and replied. “Darlin’, it’s even more fun if you ride with your hands in the air. And don’t you worry, no one has died on this ride yet.” And with that he walked away.

“Yet?!” Meg cried out in shock and Christine could no longer hold back the laughter, tears of mirth streaming down her face, prompting an indignant look from the little Giry woman. “And just what, Mademoiselle Daaé, is so funny?”

“You! Oh Meg, I’m sorry, but this was your idea.” 

Meg folded her arms over her chest and let out a loud snort. The sound of hissing air and a loud, metallic click announced the start of the ride as they started to move forward. Meg started and frantically grasped the metal bar, her knuckled turning white from the strain. 

Their wooden car started loudly clattering as it began a long ascent towards the top of the track. It felt as though they were climbing towards the bright cerulean, lightly clouded sky. Meg began muttering prayers in French while intermittently asking is there was any way to stop the ride. “I’ve changed my mind, I want off.”

Just when it seemed they could not possibly go higher, they saw it. The drop seemed impossible. To the two women, sitting in the very front of a train of people, it seemed like they were fractions of a second from plummeting straight down towards hell. Christine decided in that one final moment that she was going to live her life to its fullest. Death, tragedy and loneliness had been a constant companion in life, and she refused to let it kick her down. She wanted to live, truly live. It was in this very moment, perched at the top of this terrifying descent that this existential epiphany entered her mind in all its crisp glory, so she released her hands from the bar and let go.

Her stomach flew into her chest in the most uncomfortably delightful manner as they plummeted down the nearly vertical line of track. A surprised laugh erupted from her throat while Meg screamed shrilly like a woman being slaughtered with a butcher’s knife. It was a brief moment of pure, unadulterated thrill before they started whipping around a course of sharp turns. One turn was so sharp, it felt as though the train was going to fly off the tracks and fly straight into the ocean ahead. Their heads knocked together in that moment with a sharp crack.

“Ow!” Meg cried. But they didn’t have time to recover before they dipped down again, that floating stomach sensation hitting them once more. 

When they slowed into the boarding zone, both women were laughing and rubbing the sides of their heads to relieve the pain. 

“Next time, I’m wearing a helmet. I can’t believe you threw your hands in the air, Christine!”

“I’m just happy to hear there will be a next time. You overcame your fear, Meg!” 

The petite, black-haired girl threw her arm around her best friend and said, “Yes, but only because I learned how from you. Now, let’s go get some Cotton Candy and see the beach!”

Once acquiring their fluffy, pink confection the women made quick work of devouring it while they began their stroll down the wooden boardwalk. The sharp smell of brine was coming from the Atlantic and a fresh breeze was hitting their flushed faces. It was noticeably cooler here, but still warm enough to draw them towards the sand and crashing waves. 

Christine slipped off her shoes and held them in one hand and lifted the hem of her skirt with the other while she walked into the wet sand. The cool saltwater shocked her toes as it rushed forward with the tide. 

“Christine!” A male voice called out over the rushing sound of crashing waves. Christine looked over and sighed. There was Raoul, wearing a wool bathing suit, jogging towards them from a distance.

“Christine? I think that semi-nude Adonis is calling you.” Meg fanned herself. “You never told me you were friends with a Greek god…”

Christine shushed her. “Maybe we can walk the other way and pretend we didn’t hear him…” 

Meg gaped at Christine as though she had just spouted five heads and was suddenly covered in a swarm of bees. 

Raoul approached, damp from the ocean, water glistening on his finely muscled arms and legs. The wool bathing suit clinging to him in places that the two women immediately noticed and jerked their eyes away from.

“Little Lotte, we seem to keep meeting one another by the sea.” Raoul said in his native language. “The fates must be telling us something.” He winked at her knowingly.

Christine silently balked and turned to Meg. “Raoul, please meet my good friend, Meg. Meg here also comes from France, Paris actually.”

“Pleasure to meet you. Any friend of Christine is a friend of mine.” Meg thrust out her hand, enthusiastically grasping Raoul’s tan hand.

“A pleasure, Meg.” Raoul responded “Now that you are both here, perhaps we should spend the rest of the day together? I could change into some real clothes. I’ve been wanting to spend time with Christine since our fortuitous reconnection at the club.”

“That sounds so lovely.” Meg swooned while batting her lashes at Raoul.

“Meg, do you have something in your eye? It must be some sand…we really must get you to the washroom to rinse that out.” Christine insisted, grabbing Meg’s arm and pulled her away from the baffled Raoul.

“What, I don’t…” Meg began, but Christine interrupted.

“I regret that we really must be going. It was fantastic seeing you, Raoul. Perhaps we can take a raincheck on the day at the beach.”

“Of course,” He frowned, watching the women back away. He lifted his arm in a confused farewell as Christine dragged an equally confused Meg away from the scene. “I know where to find you, Little Lotte!”

Once the two women were at the boardwalk Meg spun on Christine and asked. “What was that all about?” 

Christine let out a weary sigh. “It’s nothing. Raoul seems keen on me and I’m not too keen on him. That’s all. He seems excited to see me, but I the feeling isn’t mutual, and I feel quite terrible about it.”

“Why? The man is…beautiful. They carve marble statues to resemble fellas like him.”

“Yes, but he seems so…oh, I don’t know. Vapid? Is that terrible of me to say? I don’t feel as though I’d be very stimulated or challenged by someone like him. Besides, he’s almost too attractive. I would feel imperfect standing next to him.” Christine cringed at her confession.

Meg shook her head is feigned dismay. “Christine, Christine. You are one odd duck; do you know that? But you know what?” She put her arm around her friend and gave her an award-winning smile. “I love you that way.”

“If I’m an odd duck, then I you must be a ding bat. Did you see how you were flapping your lids at him? You looked like you were having some sort of seizure, Meg.”

Meg erupted into peals of cherub-like laughter. “I need to learn the art of flirting. Maybe he likes you because you don’t like him. Perhaps that’s the strategy I need to adopt.”

As the women walked away from the Boardwalk, reveling in the comforts of friendship, they were thoroughly unaware of the murder taking place closer to home. Nor could they know how deeply entwined Christine Daaé would soon find herself in its plot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The Cyclone was opened June 26, 1927. It still stands to this day as one of America's oldest Roller Coasters. It is 93 years old and the second steepest coaster in America. 
> 
> When I rode the cyclone my friend and I whipped around a corner so hard that our skulls whacked together and we were nearly certain we gave ourselves a mild concussion. 
> 
> * Bathing suits were really made out of wool in the 20's, which sounds like the most uncomfortable swimming material I can think of, but I really appreciate the style of men and women swimsuits of that era. I wish we could bring back that look...but minus the wool.
> 
> * All reviews and comments appreciated. It's so much harder to judge pacing, plot and development on my end because I am too close to the project. :)  
> * I really want to make it known that my Christine knows how to stand her own. She's at a really interesting crossroad in her life and adventure is right around the corner. Hopefully this chapter added more development for her character, I didn't want to rush into the fun action until I really gave her some more time to shine.


	7. Tiger Prey

Chapter Seven: Tiger Prey

It was a massive overkill. The body was lying in a pathetic heap, covered in an ungodly amount of thick, rapidly drying blood. It was as though the man laying at their feet before them had been viciously attacked by a giant wildcat. Yet this was in the middle of a sleeping Manhattan, a realm which saw no tigers and Erik knew the mark of a blade when he saw one. 

“One man could not have done this.” He said to the nervous man standing beside him. “Two at least, but most likely three.” He sighed deeply and ran a hand through his hair. “God, what a mess.”

The anxious Persian stood beside him; with shaking hands he held the note which had been fastened to the body of the recently deceased with a pin. The paper was saturated in blood, yet the message was clear enough to read. 

The street was quiet and vacant in the early morning hour, but the two men knew the dire urgency of the situation. “We need to leave before we are seen.” Erik stated simply, only a faint vein of irritation lining his words. Vacating the horrible sight before them, the men briskly walked the two blocks required to reach the sanctuary of The Gilded Cage. 

New York is a city with few alleys, such a densely populated city lacks the space for the narrow strips of gritty terrain where most cities dispose of their refuse. Fortuitousness does not explain the presence of an alley running along The Gilded Cage. Erik had hand selected the building for that very reason, paying nearly double the asking price for the property to ensure its acquisition. His life experiences had drilled home one important lesson: Always have multiple escape routes for any situation. Sometimes this translated into the literal, his club and underground home had over a dozen different exits which he and he alone knew existed. Never again would he feel the complete helplessness and degradation of capture, to be left at the mercy of other men.

Nadir never knew how the passages were accessed, despite witnessing Erik personally enter them a handful of times. The clever masked magician, ever the showman, never seemed to lift a finger before the brick before them swung inward by half a meter. The damp smell of underground greeted them as each man ducked inside. 

“Be sure to hear the click when you close the passage, Nadir. We would not want any strays making their ways into here, now would we?” Erik said as he handed Nadir something cold and metal in the darkness, a flashlight. Erik needed no illumination to guide his way through the tunnels, but Nadir was prone to walking into solid walls and hitting his head on low hanging pipes. ‘So clumsy, good Daroga’ Erik once chuckled when Nadir had given himself two black eyes after walking face-first into a steel water pipe. ‘You look like a creature that should be digging through someone’s refuse, not the Persian Chief of police.’

“Erik, we need to discuss what this recent development means.” Nadir turned on the source of light, casting a weak yellow glow a few feet ahead of him. The incandescence lit up Erik’s unearthly yellow eyes like a wild animal at night, the effect haunting to Nadir. It was often difficult to remember the intimidating individual standing before him was merely a man, a human being like himself. The glowing eyes stared at him with undisguised impatience. 

“Well? Shall we talk while walking? Or would you prefer we have this lighthearted conversation about murder right here in a dark?” Erik turned his back to Nadir and began the journey to his home. 

“I think we need to start considering that perhaps someone is attempting to get your attention.” Nadir breathlessly stated while keeping up with Erik’s long strides. 

Erik whirled around on his heel, eyes glowing once again like a terrifying nocturnal bird of prey. “Of course someone is trying to get my attention.” He calmly, yet acerbically retorted. “I am not an idiot, Daroga! This has all the trappings of a personal message.”

The remainder of the trip through the bowels of the underground to Erik’s apartment was done in silence, save for the occasional knocking of a water pipe. Both men were already attempting to unravel the mystery of the recent murders with the cryptic notes as Nadir’s hand torch cast undulating shadows upon the wall of the tunnel. After all these years in Erik’s close acquaintance, he had still lacked the ability to grow comfortable in the enveloping black void of darkness his companion seemed to thrive in. How can a man thrive in the dark? Nadir thought.

Friendship with the prickly masked frenchman had not come easy. The two men had formed a sort of begrudging respect for one another after years of service together, but it was tragedy that truly bound the men to one another. It was through that trial by fire that the two men began to see each other in a different light. Loss has a way of doing that, of breaking old bonds and forming bonds anew. It was through loss that Nadir was offered a rare glimpse into Erik’s soul, to see him for the broken, sensitive man that he truly is and not the terrifying bringer of doom the rest of the world had labeled him. 

Intense light appeared, blinding Nadir briefly as Erik accessed the door to his elegant, underworld flat. The tunnels leading to the home may be devoid of illumination, but the apartment was brilliantly lit by a beautiful crystal chandelier hanging in the middle of the sitting room. 

“That’s new…How on earth did you get that down here by yourself?” Nadir gasped at the dazzling metal and glass light fixture suspended proudly above them from the vaulted ceiling. 

“I built it down here, piece by piece.” Erik replied as though it was the most obvious answer in the world.

“That seems plausible, but how did you manage to hang it once assembled?” 

“I did not hang it, Nadir. That would be a fool’s errand, it would most likely have fallen and there truly is nothing more tragic than a shattered chandelier.” Erik smirked and looked at Nadir “No, you see, I built it while it was suspended.”

Nadir sighed. “Is this a riddle, Erik? I don’t understand what that means.”

“Of course not, you fool. I built it from the hook downward, welded each ring and attached it to the former. I worked my way down until the frame was completed. After that it was simply a matter of attaching the crystal, there are a total of five hundred individually crafted pieces.” 

“What prompted you to build such a large light fixture? Such illumination seems out of character for you. I assumed you preferred your lighting to be oppressively moody.” 

Erik stared at the Persian, processing the playful insult and choosing to answer regardless.  
“I was inspired.” He said evasively “I have recently discovered a very brilliant source of light and I wanted to duplicate it here in my home.” He then grew somber. “Although” He began sadly, “The metaphor does not do the inspiration true justice. One cannot duplicate heaven, after all…” He trailed off, then turned towards Nadir with a puzzling expression on his face, a slight frown turning down his thin lips. He held out one long, elegant hand palm up towards the Persian. “The note please, Daroga.” 

Nadir took one last, brief look at the bloodied note before passing it off. The blood having begun to dry and crumble from the small sheet of paper. The words were scrawled in a looping, childlike handwriting. 

Erik gingerly accepted the piece of evidence and narrowed his eyes as he began his careful examination. “It nearly looks like my handwriting, hm? However, there are quite a few inconsistencies.” He pointed to to the letter “A” “You see here?” 

The former chief of the Persian police had now gravitated closer to the parchment to better observe. “It looks as though they don’t apply as much pressure on certain stokes of the pen.” He offered.

“Exactly. This was not written with the individual’s dominant hand. They intended to obscure their handwriting.” 

“What do you suppose they are implying by ‘Two days’?” Nadir rubbed his face, the phantom call of a migraine creeping behind his eyes. 

Erik strode towards his desk and tossed the soiled paper curse onto the surface, it fluttered to join a cluttered stack of designs and staff paper. “I suspect it alludes to some event to take place in two days’ time. We will need to be prepared for whatever that is.”

“We don’t have much to go by at this juncture. We know now that the people who are doing this are either targeting our operation, you or both.” Nadir glanced over to the man now absently pacing.

“I had just spoken to him not two hours ago, Nadir.” Erik swung around to the cool marble mantle place, gripping it with both hands. He continued, his voice carrying to evidence of regret “I had given him an insincere apology for requiring his presence so late, for pulling him from his wife’s bed.” Erik turned and lifted a pair of pained eyes to the concerned Persian. “I do not feel remorse often, but I am sorrowed by the death of a man who was merely appeasing my eccentric whims.” He pounded a skeletal fist onto the mantle. “I should have been able to meet him during the day! I just do not appreciate with the general population gawks at me.”

Nadir wearily made his way towards a plush, red velvet sofa and rested himself upon it. “You know, Erik. I can’t say that I’m not pleased to hear you feel saddened by the loss of human life. It is a remarkable change from our days in Persia.” At this a pair of yellow eyes burned furiously in his direction. “Do not be upset. This is praise, Erik. However, I do feel in this situation you should not allow yourself to carry the burden of this death. We really could not have known this was personal until this night.” 

Agitation radiated in thick waves from the tall masked man; it was palpable in the air. It was true, the men could have not predicted to find the body of yet another of their paid prohibition officers. Until Nadir had stumbled upon the massacre that was once a human being life felt fairly peaceful, the triple murder by the Opera had seemed an insignificant anomaly. Now there was no denying the coincidence to be too unlikely. Someone was familiar with Erik’s connection to both The Gilded Cage and the Opera. Something was going to occur in two days. 

Nadir’s migraine was beginning to take full form, raging behind his eyes like an angry devil trying to pound its way out of hell. The light was indeed blinding now, Nadir put his hands over his eyes.

Erik looked up at the chandelier in contemplation. “It is quite bright for this room, is it not?”

Nadir chuckled weakly, a laugh half saddened and half amused. “No, my friend. I think I like this new change. I’m not sure what prompted it, but I think you should maintain to keep it in your life whatever it is.”

The two men sat, speaking no more on the subject. The future was clouded with a looming, invisible threat like a sinister specter awaiting to grab them. 

Nadir was quite certain he would be unbearably jumpy for the next forty eight hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a somewhat difficult chapter to write. I've been in the process of moving into my first home while also surviving Chemistry and Cellular/Molecular Biology. 
> 
> I really love a good Erik/Nadir chapter. There will be plenty more of them in the future, but until then I hope you all enjoy a little more mystery!
> 
> More will be revealed!


	8. A Peculiar Torment

Chapter Eight: A Peculiar Torment 

The bookkeeper looked her up and down, a perplexing expression on her aged face. Christine had now spent over a week looking for the written works of her new friend, Arthur. This bookstore, small as it was, was her Hail Mary. If she couldn’t find it here, then she was quite convinced she would never find it. Christine was nearly certain Arthur had sent her on a wild goose chase for books that simply do not exist, which infuriated but amused her. 

She had grown to love Arthur as though he were a brotherly figure over her two months of employment at The Gilded Cage. He was still somewhat secretive about his life outside of work, but he was so open and warm she felt as though she could open up to him about anything. 

“Are you sure you are looking for a book by R. Ham?” The bookkeeper raised a skeptical eyebrow.

Christine released a deflated sigh. “Yes, but at this point I feel I’ll never find it. Thank you, regardless.” She turned to exit the shop but was stopped when the woman spoke after her.

“I didn’t say we don’t have it, miss.” Her Brooklyn accent was thick, her tone no-nonsense. Christine spun around with big, hopeful eyes and the woman continued. “It’s just, pardon me for saying this, but you’re not exactly the type I would peg for reading that sort of…literature.” 

Christine placed an indignant fist on one hip in a defiant gesture. “I believe that I should be the one to make that sort of call.”

The woman shook her head in an unreadable expression. “I’m not here to judge.” She chuckled a knowing chuckle then held up an index finger as though to say, ‘just one minute.’ “I’ll be right back; we don’t keep those sorts of books on the public shelves. We only present them on request, as I’m sure you can imagine.” Quietly stepping from behind the counter she disappeared into the back.

Excitement began to bubble in Christine’s breast. At long last, the mystery of Arthur’s writing would be revealed. She anxiously picked up a random book from a shelf and went through the motions of attempting to skim through it as she waited. Only minutes passed before the older woman emerged from the back carrying a thin paperback book. 

“This is the only title we currently have available.” The bookkeeper placed the small tome on the counter. “You didn’t specify a title, so I’m assuming this will do?”

Christine reached for her small purse and fished around for currency. “Oh yes! Any title will do. What do I owe you?” 

The woman named her price and Christine immediately paid up. Clutching her prize in her hand she felt somewhat triumphant, her quest having a successful outcome. She thanked the woman and began to make her exit, book in hand.

“Miss, I would keep that in your purse if I were you. I wouldn’t let the public see you carrying that.” 

Christine froze and furrowed her brow but did as suggested. Her interest was truly piqued. Something about the book was forbidden to the general public and she was anxious to understand why. 

The bookstore was blocks away from Central Park and she was keen on a location which offered a bit of seclusion for such a big metropolitan area. The suspense was eating her inside and she brusquely walked towards the park, her new acquisition burning a proverbial hole in her bag. A part of her was fearful she was about to learn something about her dear friend which perhaps he had wished to keep private. Would such a discovery indelibly alter her opinion of him? Christine mentally shook her head, ‘Of course not, Arthur has a good heart. There cannot be anything that could possibly give cause for my disapproval of him.’ 

She ducked and weaved between pedestrians milling about the sidewalk. The humid summer air held to her every movement as though attempting to slow her down. Summer in this city felt relentless. The heat of the paved street could be felt through the soles of her thin kitten-heel shoes, reminding her how precariously close they were to simply fall apart on her feet. Shining them merely maintained their outward appearance but all the walking she had accomplished since moving to New York had greatly compromised their structural integrity over time. She could foresee a necessary trip to the shoe shop in her immediate future.

Entering Central Park was like entering a separate reality. The blaring sounds of automobiles, shouting construction workers, and trolley cars seemed to evaporate as she made her way deeper into the lush, green tree lined pathway of the metropolitan oasis. Her favorite location to seek solace and fresh air was located near a small bridge. In a nook was a bench which she nearly always found to be vacant, as though it was a hidden gem in the city only she possessed the knowledge of.

Christine reverently prepared her spot on the cool cement bench, brushing a few stray leaves from the looming tree above which cast a blessed wealth of shade. Her heart was pounding in her chest as though she was a delinquent school child who was committing petty theft and getting away with it. Eager fingers quickly worked on the clasp of her purse and slipped out the lightweight paperback. 

A deep wine-colored cover with a simple white typeface presented the title to the reader.

A Peculiar Torment,  
By R.Ham.

Christine flipped to the first page and began to read. Arthur was an effective writer, she decided, possessing the ability to artfully string together words and phrases in a manner which was poetic yet not too flowery. The lead character, Clyde, was a young man attempting to navigate his way in New York City as a struggling trumpet player. 

From the beginning it all seemed to read like any regular novel, but things started to veer from the typical when Clyde attended a party at a wealthy man’s penthouse residence. Christine’s eyes grew as large as saucers as a torrid scene began to play out on the black and white pages of the book. Never had she read anything of this nature. Men were doing graphically vivid sexual acts on other men. Arthur used all five senses in his writing so much so that a part of her felt as though she truly had entered into this raucous scene of rutting men. Descriptions of sweat, bodies and fluids were abundant. 

Christine was not innocent when it came to the world of sex, but her singular experience was terribly awkward, unsatisfying and so short-lived she could nearly claim it never occurred. Women lost their virginity with disappointment all the time, there really was no tragedy in that, but she vowed to wait for real love before giving herself to another again.

With a blush from head to toe Christine continued to follow the illicit exploits of Clyde as he tried to find himself through the Manhattan night life, performing physical acts on other men to make his way until eventually falling in love with a heterosexual man who he knew could never have. 

‘There is no peculiar torment more pronounced than giving your heart to a man with preferences that do not align with your own.’ 

With that final sentence Christine closed the book and let out a heavy breath. This was Arthur’s secret; this was a part of who he was.

Christine was not naïve; she knew society was cruel to members of the homosexual community. There were laws in this very city which persecuted people like Arthur. Meg had told Christine of a male ballerina at the Metropolitan who was arrested and convicted of sodomy after being seen kissing another man. Meg had delivered this news with hushed tones, as though speaking of it was in itself a crime. 

There were reasons Arthur kept his identity a secret, Christine knew this. Her heart ached as she contemplated the injustice of it all. Yet she felt immensely grateful Arthur had trusted her with something as telling as his penname. She vowed he would never regret allowing her to glimpse into his private world. 

Placing the book back into her bag, she stood and brushed the back of her skirt. Head full of evocative sex scenes, she made her way towards The Gilded Cage excited to see her friend. She had one or two questions to ask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should be studying, but I had to at least get this short chapter written.
> 
> I support the LGBTQ community, so I hope I am giving my dear character Arthur the respect that he deserves.


	9. When Sound Is Bliss

Chapter Nine: When sound is bliss

She entered through the back entrance of The Gilded Cage, an entrance reserved for employees and band. In her mind the book was glowing red hot within her bag. During the course of the twenty-minute walk from her reading spot in the park and the alleyway beside the club Christine had internally debated how to approach Arthur with her newfound knowledge. A small part of her fretted over whether he would take offense that she had so doggedly pursued his written works and discovered the secret he so clearly must hide from the world. 

Pulling out her key to the rear entrance, Christine felt her stomach churn as she contemplated the words she would say to Arthur. It was of the utmost importance that he feel respected by her. The air that wafted towards her upon opening the door was that of cigar tobacco, illicit alcohol and some spice she could not quite name. Latching the door behind her, Christine made her way down the hall towards the bar room. 

Arthur was there standing on the customer’s side of the bar, in his usual black dress shirt with sleeves rolled up his forearms. He was engaged in conversation with a man Christine had never seen. The man was adorned in a soft brown, double breasted suit and neatly coifed black hair styled away from his face. As Christine entered the room the man stopped his indecipherable conversation with her friend and turned in her direction. The light seemed to catch his jade eyes as she drew closer and he smiled warmly, which in turn lit up the features of his face. He smiled, his teeth gleaming white and contrasting beautifully with the color of his cappuccino skin. 

“Christine!” Arthur greeted. “Please meet Nadir, he co-owns the club.” 

“Oh, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” Christine extended her hand which he took in his. “I was not aware that Erik had a partner.”

Nadir raised an eyebrow an amused expression on his face. “You’ve met Erik? He generally prefers that I interact with the staff. Not fond of people.”

“He seems fairly agreeable to me.” Christine coolly responded.

The man only chuckled, a genuinely humorous sound. “That’s only because you do not know him as I do.” 

“Christine. There was a murder nearby.” Arthur gently placed a hand on her shoulder, as though he was certain she needed some support upon hearing such news. “Nadir will be keeping an extra eye out as added security. He was informing me of the recent event.” 

“If I do my job correctly you should hardly know I’m here. Please, do not feel uncomfortable by my presence, this is simply a precaution for your safety.”   
Christine smiled and nodded. “I feel safer already.” 

Nadir turned towards Arthur, shook his hand and bid his farewell to the two. He took his leave via the storage room hallway, presumably towards one of the mysterious doors she had never entered. 

“How many people own the club?” Christine inquired.

“Just the two.” He tilted his head, catching the anxious expression in her eye. “What? You look like you have a cat in a bag and you need to let it out.” 

Christine had not realized she was holding her breath until it came rushing out. “Am I truly that transparent?” 

Arthur grinned. “It’s one of the qualities that make you so endearing. Now spill your guts, darling.” 

“Very well,” Christine sighed. “I found one of your books. A Peculiar Torment.”

Arthur stilled, his eyes widening before prompting dropping towards the ground to avoid her gaze. His hands thrust nervously into his pants pockets as though he suddenly was not quite sure what to do with them. “I see…” He swallowed. “And…so now you know.” 

She placed a small hand on his strong shoulder, she could feel his warmth through the fabric of his dress shirt. “Arthur, I need you to understand that this changes nothing. You are still my very dear friend. I will maintain your privacy; this information does not leave me. I am grateful to be your trusted confidant.”

He let out a pained sigh of relief. “Oh, Christine. I have never felt so relieved…You must understand that I rarely divulge this information to others. It’s a burden that I must carry, this need to hide who I am all the time. Having someone whom I may confide in, it is an immense joy.” 

“What about your family?” She queried.

“Especially not my family. Conservative Religious types, I would never speak to them again if they were to know.” He shook his head aggressively. “I knew when I was only ten years old and it’s been hell keeping that part of myself hidden from them, like being locked in a cage.”

“I am so sorry to hear that. It must be awfully terrible to carry that burden.” She sympathized. “Well, as you may confide in me, I only ask that I may confide in you.” Christine gave his shoulder an encouraging rub. “If ever I have a secret to reveal, I’d like very much for you to be its recipient.”

“Agreed!” Arthur pulled her into his arms in a friendly embrace before pushing her back to look in her face, a playful smirk about his lips. “I must admit, it is somewhat humorous to imagine you reading some of the chapters of that book. I would pay to have seen your face when you got to chapter four.”

She affectionately slapped his arm. “I was given somewhat of a shock. Although,” She tried to shrug nonchalantly. “Some of the acts described were not too dissimilar from those I’ve heard ballerinas whispering about during my visits to Paris Opera house.” 

“Only through word of mouth? I’ll take it you’ve never indulged in such carnal revelry?” He pried, with one handsome eyebrow raised in anticipation.

Her blush was instantaneous. She averted her eyes and shyly giggled “No…I’ve been with a man once…I was nineteen, we were both novices…it was somewhat embarrassing for both parties involved. We never spoke to one another again.” She anxiously confessed. “I would say my experience is quite limited. I’ve never indulged in anything quite like that…” She grew a bit redder as images from the book appeared in her mind, then she straightened her posture and boldly added. “Although, if I ever choose to do…that, I’ll know what to do since you have practically written the manual on it.” 

“Indeed!” Arthur declared, with a devilish smirk still wrapped tightly to his face. 

The conversation had come to a natural end. Christine felt buoyant, grateful she could speak so freely with another person about topics she had been taught to be taboo. 

The Thursday evening transitioned into night as the club filled with music, smoke and laughter. Patrons from the top of the socioeconomic ladder mingled with one another. Women were adorned with the most intricately crafted evening gowns, chiffon with meticulous beadwork, silks elegantly draped, layers of fine ecru lace and all the decadent accessorizing that accompanies such outfits. Christine could practically feel her femininity salivating over such displays of beautiful fashion while being quite certain she would never grace the world in such finery. Her poor shoes were hanging together by a very thin thread as it was. 

As she searched in the stock room vault for an expensive bottle of imported Russian vodka she mentally weighed the pros and cons of buying a new pair of shoes versus attempting to repair her nearly dilapidated pair on her own. The sound of a bell rang loudly in her ear, violently yanking her from her thoughts. 

Letting out a yelp she spun around, only to find Erik a few feet before her holding a tiny silver bell between two very beautiful fingers. 

“I felt it was perhaps best that I announce my presence.” He gestured to the metallic object and said smugly. “I believe the bell was your idea.” 

“You are doing this intentionally.” She huffed, attempting to sound angry but too charmed to sound convincing. “You’ve learned that I am quite easy to scare and you are doing this for your own amusement.” At this she fought back a smile. 

“That is simply not true.” He replied smoothly, his voice like butter on a stack of warm flapjacks. “I came here to speak with you about something pressing.” 

“And what could be so pressing you felt it necessary to give me a mild heart attack?” She folded her arms over her chest in a weakly authoritative gesture. 

“We need to discuss your voice.” He snapped his fingers and the bell in the other hand seemed to vanish in midair. 

Christine’s mouth dropped open in wonder, her arms fell to her sides as though she was placed in some stupor. “How on earth did you just do that?” 

“Magic, my dear. Did you enjoy it?” 

She giggled like a child and nodded enthusiastically, forgetting her previous fright. “Do you know more?”

“Indeed, I shall show you all the magic you like, but first,” He held up a very elegant finger. “We need to discuss that gift of yours.”

Her hand flew to her throat, the way a woman’s hand will go to her hair in response to a complimentary remark on its style. “It isn’t that remarkable. It was my dream to sing for an Opera chorus.” She shook her head dismissively. “I fear that will never be the case.” 

“Chorus?” He said the word as though it left a bad taste in his mouth. “You are not fit for a chorus. No, you, my dear, are lead soprano worthy.” He held up his finger again, a gesture that informed of the importance of his next statement. “You need work, however, and I would like to teach you.”

Up until this point Christine had become familiar with the bizarre nature of her conversations with Erik. The slender man was wrapped in a cocoon of intrigue and mystery, one which Christine felt compelled to grab hold of and unravel as one would a knitted sweater. There was something so alluring about his aura, his presence made her heart pound like the frantic hooves of a racehorse making the final stretch to the finish line. Of all their pervious conversations, this was possibly the strangest.

“You want to teach me to sing?” She placed one defiant hand on her hip, an expression of pure speculation on her pretty features. “And what, may I ask, are your credentials for such an occupation?”  
In response he flashed her a sharp-toothed grin, like a wolf that was eyeing a tasty lamb, then parted his thin lips and began to sing.

No voice like that could exist on Earth. Christine was overwhelmed by its ethereal beauty as it wrapped itself around her like an audible embrace. Her knees grew weak, her breath rushed from her chest in a euphoric sigh, her heart seemed to melt into a puddle within her chest. A story from her childhood came to mind. The Angel of Music. Her father reveled in telling her the Swedish folktale of an Angel that appeared to those who were destined to be great musicians. He had insisted one day she too would be paid a visit by the heavenly entity.

Christine suddenly had the sense that under different circumstances, she could have been led to believe that Erik was that angel. An absurd thought to be sure, but true, nonetheless. 

The song was brief but had its intended effect. When it was done, silence fell once more in the small space of the chilly vault, with the low murmur of the sounds from the nightclub filtering in through the door. Christine felt like she was having something precious ripped from her. She mourned the sudden loss of the audio bliss. 

Her lungs were burning, she had forgotten in take in air when she had last expelled it. She felt incredibly disoriented, as though having awoken from a hundred-year sleep. 

Christine stared at his gold eyes like a woman who had been enchanted. His gaze was knowing and smug. Together they stood there staring at one another as the world around them ceased to exist. 

When she finally spoke, her voice did not sound like her own. 

“I consent. Please, teach me.”


	10. Eyes

Chapter Ten: Eyes

“Christine, I was ten seconds away from sending out an expedition party out searching for you. Please tell me you found that Vodka, those terribly privileged men have been to the bar twice looking for it.” Arthur was typically jovial, but it was obvious now he was perturbed. “One more exchange with them and I will certainly scream.”

“I’m sorry, I think I’ve just had a spiritual experience.” Christine relinquished the glass bottle of clear liquor to the antsy bartender. “Have you ever had one?”

“Yes, his name was Theodore.” Arthur fluidly opened the bottle, the label written in a language Christine could not understand. The liquid was hastily poured into a Boston shaker with ice. Arthur began fervently shaking it with a slight scowl on his face. “Did you hit your head? Seriously, Christine, the Vodka was right there on the second shelf. What took you so long?”

She watched as he poured the contents of the shaker into four perfectly chilled martini glasses and sighed. “Erik. He graced me with yet another mysterious appearance.” 

Arthur raised an eyebrow at the news. “And you had a 'spiritual experience’?”

“Oh, don’t be crass!” She fought a smile and made a quick dismissive wave. Then leaned in with bright, giddy eyes and half-whispered conspiratorially over the loud music. “He wants to give me singing lessons.” 

Arthur’s gaze flew from the olive he was about to skewer and landed straight on Christine. “Singing lessons? Is that what the folks are calling it these days?”

“Oh Arthur, your mind is in the sewer.” She playfully shot back as she gingerly collected the completed martinis onto a tray for delivery.

“Very well.” He shrugged. “Whether it’s singing lessons or the matrimonial polka, I suppose I cannot reprimand you. He’s the one who pays me, and you are practically my sister now, but don’t think for a second this third degree is over.”

Her smile in response beaming as she turned towards a rowdy table of foxed gentleman to deliver their long-awaited drinks. 

The men dressed in their finery were not acting as gentleman. Two were engaged in a very incoherent argument over stocks while the other two leered at her like predators as she set their ordered cocktails upon the liquor speckled table. A woman sat beside one of the men engaged in argument, she had a vacant, empty look of a woman trapped. Christine noticed a wedding band on her finger with a large diamond affixed, clearly married to the gentleman next to her. 

Christine carefully placed the final martini before the last man, careful not to allow the precarious stemware to tip and splash over the side. As she began to retract her hand the older man before the beverage grabbed her delicate wrist in a painful grip. He was a built man, with greying hair and an alcohol reddened face.

“Aren’t you a pretty thing?” He crooned. He reached up and gripped her chin with rough fingers. Christine could smell the residuals of cigar tobacco on his fingers. “How would you like to spend the rest of the evening with a real gentleman, sweetheart?”

Disgusted, Christine turned her face away and attempted to step away, but his grip on her arm became more forceful, holding her in place. 

“So flighty.” One of the other men commented in vicious joviality. The group laughed, all but the hollow woman sitting at the table. Her resigned eyes met Christine apologetically. 

He had such a vice grip Christine could feel the blood leaving her hand. His expression was cruel, the expression of a man who revels in being the bully to those smaller than him.

The man’s eyes grew large with surprise and he turned his head to the man sitting next to him. “What did you just say?”

His friend just shook his head and shrugged as though perplexed by the question. Her tormenter’s eyes grew large again, a haunted expression in them and his grip loosened. Christine used the opportunity to wrest her hand away. 

The man looked at her with terrified eyes and shakily whispered. “I am terribly sorry. Perhaps I have had too much to drink.”

Just then, Keenan, the muscle appeared by Christine’s side and asked the table to kindly leave the premise. He sternly looked at the man who had just had the strangest change of heart.  
“For your safety I would advise you not to return again. One of the owners has taken issue with your behavior.” 

The table stumbled to their feet, some of the men seemed indignant, some seemed embarrassed. Christine did not miss the eyes of the man who had just been permanently banned. He seemed relieved to go, as though he had just seen a ghost and was eager to flee.

Keenan insured they had exited the building before turning to Christine. “Are you alright, Christine?” He placed a strong hand on her shoulder in comfort. “I should have been here sooner; I apologize for my delay.” 

She shook her head. “I’m merely startled. The whole event was surreal.” 

“He won’t be back. The owners won’t allow it now.” He patted her shoulder. “You’re safe here, there’s probably no place safer.” 

She gave him a weak smile. “I appreciate it Keenan. Thank you for intervening on my behalf.” 

He gave her a nod and returned to his post by the door. Taking a deep breath to return her back to the present, Christine gathered the mostly unconsumed beverages onto her tray and wiped the table with the dry cloth in her apron. 

Arthur looked worried when she returned to the bar. He reached forward and took her hand, rolling up the sleeve as though expecting a large red handprint but it was unmarked. “Geez, Christine. That brute ought to be taken out to a field and shot. There’s no place in this world for beasts like him.”

Nadir appeared from the hallway leading to the stock room and approached the bar. “Are you well, Christine?” He asked with gentle eyes.

All of the concern was suddenly very overwhelming to Christine. “Truly, I am fine. I thank you for sending Keenan.” Her eyes looked away a part of her felt burning shame for having been so powerless earlier. Her face flushed with embarrassment for her lack of ability to fight off the man herself. 

“I apologize, Christine. It was not the one who sent Keenan. I was in the office at the time of the incident.” He grimaced at his own failure. 

“Who then?”

Nadir seemed reluctant to respond, then rolled his eyes in exasperation and finally let loose the words. “Erik. He enjoys having eyes all over this place. I still have not grown accustom to his methods of surveillance.”

Christine’s eyes scanned the room, ceiling to floor. “But how?”

Nadir shrugged. “Who knows? He’s a magician among other things. I know him and still gives me the creeps.” He looked at Christine with kindness shining in his brilliant green eyes. “Do not let this revelation frighten you. He may have unconventional methods, but I assure you that you will always be safe.” He rubbed his eyes and gave a deflated sigh. “Now, I must go, I assume I have a lecture awaiting me back in the office.” 

Arthurs eyes lingered on Nadir as he walked away. His hands busy drying a rock glass with a clean cloth. Christine did not miss the sad sort of admiration in his eyes. 

Christine came behind the bar and began to help Arthur with the drying. “How do you think he does it?” She asked in a barely audible voice in an attempt not to be heard.

“Who? Do what?” Arthur whispered back, accepting the unspoken rules of this strange new conversation. 

“Erik. How do you think he sees what’s happening?” She whispered back, her eyes not leaving the glass she was drying.

“Beats me, but it certainly adds to his enigma, does it not?” He chuckled. “I’ve only met him a handful of times, each time leaving me with more questions than the last.” He chuckled at a sudden memory. “You know, I actually heard him before I met him.”

“Like on the telephone?”

“No, in my ear.” He looked over at her bemused expression. “It’s true. I was my first day and I could not, for the life of me, remember the combination to the stock room vault. God, it was humiliating. I tried number after number to no avail. Then suddenly I heard someone say the numbers in my ear. It was the strangest thing. It wasn’t until I met him in person later on that I put the voice to the…face.”

Christine’s puzzled expression melted to one of understanding. Suddenly some of the odd events of the evening made much more sense. She wasn’t certain of the how, what she now knew what had left the boor of a man so horror-stricken.

“I’d like to tell you a secret, Arthur.” She cupped her hands around his ear and pressed her face to him to deliver the words for him alone. “I find him incredibly fascinating.” She very quietly breathed into his ear.

He hummed in response. 

The rest of the shift was seamless, but the weight of her confession remained. 

As Keenan left for the evening, she bid him a good night.

If only she knew the sinister event looming on the horizon, perhaps she would have said more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Matrimonial Polka= slang for "doing it".


	11. Eye of the Storm

Chapter Eleven: Eye before the Storm

The two women sat in the brand-new Café Reggio, both sipping fine Italian espresso in the form of cappuccinos. Meg was attempting to regale Christine with yet another wild tale about the infamous Opera Ghost while simultaneously stuffing her mouth full of an Italian pastry with a name none of the women could possibly pronounce. Meg had sported a prominent milk foam mustache for a few minutes, but Christine was too amused to alert her. 

“Someone had changed the lock on her room!” Meg giddily exclaimed while wildly gesticulating with a flakey bit of pastry in one hand “I have never seen Carlotta so furious. All of her costumes and wigs were inside. They had to call the handyman to open the door, but it was too late for her to appear on stage! Her understudy took her place on opening night.”

Meg had clued in Christine to the general disdain the majority of the performers and crew held for the Prima Donna of the Metropolitan Opera House. The Prima ballerina had used a lot of words to describe Carlotta, some which could not be said around the general public. Narcissistic, cruel and self-serving, Carlotta had made a long list of enemies at the Opera. Unfortunately for the cast and crew of the Opera, Carlotta was a favorite among the managers. Poor Meg seemed utterly perplexed by their adoration.

“Meg, if practically everyone despises this woman, any number of people could have changed her lock. Why must it fall to some unreal, supernatural specter?” 

“Her door was locked! Someone would have either needed a key, or the capability of walking through walls.” Meg insisted, frustrated her ghost story was not being accepted. She was like a child clinging to their belief in Saint Nicholas long past the age they ought to.

“I believe you must certainly know the more likely of those two possibilities.” Christine snorted and pulled a sip from the top of her cappuccino foam. “Very well, let us entertain the existence of this ghoul for a moment. What does your mother think of all of this?”

Meg folded her arms and leaned back in her chair like a petulant child. “She says there is no such thing as ghosts. She claims that it’s a man.”

Christine set her ceramic cup upon its saucer and leaned back into her own chair. “She truly acknowledges such a man exists? A man who parades as a ghost? A ghost who always wears evening wear?”

Meg sighed as though accepting that the jig was up “Perhaps he isn’t a ghost, but something unusual is going on and Mama is involved somehow.”

“Your mother is not the type to be involved in anything nefarious.” Christine quickly dismissed. 

“I know that.” Meg rolled her eyes in exasperation. “But she knows something, I tell you. All this secret keeping has me in fits!”

“With all the stories told around that theatre it must be terribly difficult to sort out fact from fiction.” Christine stated in a professional, no-nonsense tone. “So, let’s attempt to solve this mystery. What are the facts?”

Meg held up an index finger to punctuate her first ‘fact’. “He has his own box. Box five. It always appears to be empty during shows but there was this one time Carlotta tripped on her gown onstage and laughter erupted from that box. One of the other box attendants swears by it. Mama says the Box belongs to a wealthy patron, but why is it empty during shows?” She held up a second finger to announce the arrival of a second ‘fact’. “Sometimes I’ll see Mama with an envelope that she delivers to the management and shortly after they appear nervous and begin making all sorts of odd changes to the production. It’s always the same sort of envelope, with a very distinctive color of ink.” Meg held up her third finger. “The last bit, as you already know, is the faceless man in evening wear the crew has seen at odd hours up in the rafters and in the hallways.”

“Faceless? Meg, that seems less ‘fact’ and more ‘fiction’. You would make a wonderful gothic horror writer; you should consider putting some of these thoughts on paper.”

“Faceless makes more logical sense than ‘deaths head’. That’s what Joseph Buquet claims he saw… although, we’re fairly certain Buquet is hitting the Jake pretty hard. He’s always shaking. I can’t believe there haven’t been more sets dropped. One time he nearly fell from the rafters and swore that he was attacked by the ghost.”

“Sounds like a very credible source, Meg.” Christine scoffed with lively sarcasm. 

Meg scrunched up her face in disgust “I know, Buquet is a mess. I saw him drink a bottle of Vanilla extract once. On my word, it smelled like an alcoholic bakery backstage all day.”

Christine’s face was aghast. “Has the management done nothing about this? His actions could get someone killed.” 

The expression of disgust on Meg’s face increased tenfold. “Those two idiots have no idea what they are doing. Do you know the two of them have never managed a theatre before? They’re just a couple of goons from Wall Street who see some kind of opportunity to look cultured, or at least, that’s what Mama says.”

Christine quirked a derisive eyebrow, trying to picture Mme. Giry using the word ‘goon’. The image did not quite sit well and was more than likely a bit of creative filler on Meg’s part. “They certainly did not err when bringing you across the Atlantic to serve as Prima Ballerina.”

Meg leaned in over the table towards Christine like a woman who was getting ready to reveal the mysteries of the universe over coffee. Her eyes wide with childlike delight. “And that’s where our mystery comes full circle. Mama says it wasn’t the managers who sent for me, but rather our mysterious patron in Box Five.” She shot Christine an expression as though to say, ‘I told you things were quirky around here.’

Christine placed her elbow on the table and rested her chin in her hand in contemplation. “Now of all the so called ‘facts’ you’ve presented, that seems the most interesting. The only thing we of which we can be certain is there is a wealthy patron in Box Five. Although, that would not be a surprise as most boxes are owned by patrons. Said patron may or may not always use his box, thus leaving it empty. We also know Joseph Buquet is a veritable drunk and that your mother sometimes delivers notes to the management. None of those fact point to the existence of a poltergeist. Now, inanimate objects floating in mid-air, blood dripping from the walls, and flickering lights…those are more along the lines of evidence of a haunting.”

“You really know how to spoil the fun, Christine. If I had a parade you would be raining all over it.” Meg grumbled. “I recall you used to go on and on about korrigans and all that other Swedish folklore.”

“Oh, I still believe in korrigans.” Christine winked. “Just not ghosts.”

The two women spoke no more about the mysterious events at the Opera House. Christine enjoyed the tall tales but continued to carry a healthy dose of skepticism. She had, however, taken Meg’s last words to heart, perhaps she was a spoil sport. Perhaps she ought to entertain Meg’s fanciful beliefs in an unearthly specter. Good heavens, I don’t want to grow to become cynical. She thought.

July was nearing its end. The muggy heat of a Manhattan summer was bordering on the unbearable, causing a claustrophobic sort of atmosphere. Christine’s wardrobe was not equipped for this weather. She mentally committed to going on a shopping errand the following day for a new dress and shoes. Although early, the day seemed to begin hotter than usual. The air almost crackled with electricity. Christine could not help but feel it was the portent for something yet to come.

The two women finished their small breakfast and exited the café. As they walked along the sidewalk passing a flower shop, a boy selling newspapers, a man walking a tiny white dog Christine was eager to spill her own guts “Meg, I have some rather unusual news.” A smile breaking out on her face, Christine looked down at the ground to obscure it. “My employer has offered to give me singing lessons. I’ve accepted.”

“Seems I’m not the only one with outrageous tales this morning.” Meg giggled and gave Christine a gentle nudge with the tip of a dainty elbow. “A nightclub owner knows about singing?”

“He certainly does. He claims…” Christine blushed and faltered on the delivery of her next sentence. “He claims that with some training I could be a lead in an opera.”

“I’ve always known you could be a great singer, Christine” Meg claimed. “Although, I would have assumed a nightclub owner would be more involved with Jazz than anything else.”

Christine gave a half-hearted shrug. “He wants to begin next week. I’m to arrive an hour prior to my shift. Although, I’m a bit nervous. What if I prove to be a failure?” What if he does not like me? She chose not to say.

“I cannot believe my ears. My friend, the very brave Christine Daaé is afraid of failure?” Meg scoffed. “You ride rollercoasters without hands. Nothing should frighten you now.”

“My dear Meg, I was terrified on that rollercoaster. I just chose to face it.”

“Look at you, giving yourself some good advice. Face this new fear too. I’ve always believed in you.” Meg glanced at her watch. “Oh! Look at the time! I need to get back, Mama will be quite cross if I’m late.” 

The women embraced and Christine watched as her friend gracefully sprinted across the street in the direction towards home. In that moment she considered herself quite lucky to have such a friend in her life. 

As the stifling morning melted into the afternoon the cackling electricity in the air seemed to grow in intensity. The dark clouds seemed to appear from seemingly nowhere, quickly rolling on the horizon like an enemy army charging forward toward a bloody battle. Christine watched them continue to grow larger from the window of her elevated streetcar as they began to loom ever closer to the city. By the time she reached her stop, the large raindrops were beginning to fall. Christine, dismayed by her utter lack of umbrella, prepared to brave the onslaught of heavy rainfall.

Her tatty kitten heels were clearly not ready for this weather and she could feel every hard foot fall through the increasingly thinning sole as she scampered towards the club. She was not fast enough, the sky split open like it had been disemboweled by a sharp blade. Rain came down like buckets soaking her thoroughly from head to toe in a matter of minutes. 

By the time she inserted her key into the lock of the back entrance to the Gilded Cage she resembled a woman who had just washed ashore. Her hands were shaking from her mad dash. A booming thunderclap startled Christine as the sky lit up with the first signs of lightening. The lock gave way and she quickly ducked inside, locking the door behind her. Glancing down, she noticed the puddle of water rapidly forming from the excess water cascading off her water saturated black dress. Her curls were most likely ruined. She was sure if she saw her reflection mirror, she would see black lines running down her face.

“Uh Oh. Looks like someone forgot an umbrella.” Arthur smirked. “You aren’t the only one, Christine. Although, lucky for me, I made it here before the monsoon.”

He pulled out a few bar towels and handed them to a grateful Christine who began making quick work drying her hair. “I had no idea it would rain. The sky was so blue this morning.” 

“You’ll get used to the New York summer storms. You learn to feel it in the air.” He replied while using another towel to blot some of the excess water from her dress. “Sorry, darling. I’m not trying to get frisky with you, but you’re leaking like a sieve all over the floor.” 

The pair worked for nearly fifteen minutes attempting to salvage her soggy outfit, sacrificing an armful of bar towels in the process, but the rain had soaked her clean to the skin.

She let out a deflated sigh. “How am I ever going to work like this?” She lamented while gesturing towards the clinging dress.

“We may not be that busy tonight. Rainstorms like this typically keep folks inside. Good for us, because we’re short for a Friday. Regina quit.”

“That’s a shame. I really liked Regina.” Christine frowned. “Why?”

Arthur lowered his voice and cocked his head towards the direction of the man sitting by the locked front entrance “Turns out she and Keenan were having a ‘thing’. I don’t know much aside from that, but things apparently ended pretty ugly. That’s really all I know.” He gave her a once over with his eyes. “Go get yourself cleaned up Christine. It’ll be okay.” 

Christine made her way to the powder room; she could feel the squelching of the water in her nylons with each step. Upon opening the door her breath caught in her chest. 

There, hanging on the mirror, was a nearly identical dress to the one she currently wore. Its only difference, shorter sleeves. The dress was accompanied by a long, black umbrella with a slender hook handle. Attached was a note with one word scrawled in adorably childish handwriting in red ink, 'Christine'..

She shook her head. Truly, by now she should learn to stop being so surprised in the ways of Erik.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Sfogliatelle- A Southern Italian pastry shaped like a clamshell and filled with a delicious ricotta cheese, orange curd filling.
> 
> Protip: If you are ever in Napoli or anywhere else in Southern Italy, get one! Make sure they serve it to you warm! You will never eat a more delicious pastry. (But try not to butcher the pronunciation.)
> 
> *Cafe Reggio was opened in 1927 and hold the claim to fame as being the first cafe to introduce American's to the Cappuccino. They still have their first espresso machine on display. Next time you visit New York, check them out!
> 
> *Jake= slang for Jamaican Ginger extract. It had an incredibly high alcohol content and was typically used in small doses as a medical treatment for headaches and other small medical concerns. (If using alcohol as a medical treatment sounds odd, you should consider how they treated Syphilis with Mercury Bromide. : / ) By the 1930's individuals who consumed large amounts of Jake were reported to suffer from a strange paralysis as a result of a chemical called triorthocresyl phosphate which is a plasticizer often used in paint finishes. This chemical turned out to act as a neurotoxin.
> 
> Some individuals afflicted by this paralysis presented a very distinctive walk, which is why the paralysis is sometimes called Jake leg.
> 
> *Summer storms in New York City are unlike anything I have ever experienced. Clear skies one moment then clouds appear and monsoon-like rain comes out of nowhere. I once saw a bolt lightening hit a manhole several feet from me, the accompanying thunderclap was so loud I felt it in my bones. It was a terrifying day, but also such a wild experience. Immediately after the storm the air feels so fresh, until the water begins to evaporate and you are in humidity hell again.


	12. The Night of the Storm

Chapter 12: The Night of the Storm 

True to Arthur’s words, that stormy night at The Gilded Cage crawled by at a snail’s pace. Only a few patrons seemed willing to brave the elements to enjoy a bit of Friday night revelry. The occasional thunderclap could be heard even above the music coming from a band who seemed less than enthused to play for a virtually empty space. 

Hours passed uneventfully, leaving Christine with no task to attend. She had sorted and organized the bar, cleaned the stockroom, and cleaned all the mirror and glass surfaces in the bar to escape the slow pace. Arthur had put a final stop on any garnish prep lest they unnecessarily waste any citrus, cherries or olives in the process. The two had resorted to playing ‘I Spy’ to pass the monotony.

Christine was looking around with a dainty finger on her cheek in contemplation. “I spy, with my little eye, something beginning with C.” She grinned with delight “This is a difficult one, I am quite certain you will not be able to find it.”

Arthur began looking around the club from where they stood with a scrutinizing eye, seeking the object Christine may have seen.

“Whatever happened that that male friend who used to visit you here?” Christine asked in hushed tones, lest someone overhear her.

“He and I have a frustrating on-and-off relationship.” Arthur confessed lazily while continuing to scan the room. “It’s my fault really. I can’t give him what he needs, but I find it difficult to let him go.” He sighed. “Is it that candelabra?” He pointed to the item in the far corner of the club.

“No.” Christine shook her head while looking like the cat who ate the canary. 

“Am I at least getting warm?” He insisted

“Not in the slightest. Arctic cold. You are looking on the wrong side of the room.” 

Arthur looked over her shoulder and let out an amused whistle. A handsome man was entering the club, rain streaming from the umbrella he has just folded up, his fine polished dress shoes and the bottoms of his expensive slacks wet from the rain. “Don’t look now Christine, but I think someone is here to see you.”

Christine turned to look over her shoulder and her lips turned down. “I knew it was only a matter of time.” She lamented.

“Some men aren’t very good at taking hints. Trust me on this. You may need to use a blunt knife to sever your ties with that one. So far, you’ve been using a scalpel and scalpels are too subtle.” He whispered, then immediately turned away to act busy as Raoul approached the bar.  
“What a terribly dreadful evening, Little Lotte!” The young, blond aristocrat greeted. “How lucky am I to have found the sunshine here!” He gestured to Christine who blushed with mortification but gave the man a timid smile. She could practically feel Arthur’s enjoyment of the scene hitting her back in glorious waves.

“Raoul. It is nice to see you as well.” She politely returned his greeting. 

“I was driving home and I knew I had to stop in and see if you were here.” His eyes had a somewhat fevered look to them, bright with optimism and confidence. “Oh, forgive my manners. I suppose I should order something first. What sort of lout enters a club without making a purchase?” He directed his attention to Arthur and said “Perhaps, champagne. To celebrate my good friend, Christine.” 

Arthur gave a mock bow that Christine did not miss and replied with overt professionalism “Absolutely, Sir. However, you must pay for the whole bottle, once open we cannot seal it again.”

Raoul waved a dismissive hand as though to say, ‘money is no object, I could burn it to keep my wood stove alight.’ “Perhaps Christine would be permitted a glass?”

Arthur gave Christine a knowing grin and she subtly narrowed her eyes at him in contempt. “I don’t see why not.” He casually shrugged, then turned to Christine with a deadpan expression and said “Christine, please fetch your friend his Special #7.”

The two awkwardly stared at each other. Christine was perturbed with Arthur, she knew exactly what he was doing, but she relented and left to bar to retrieve the bottle from the stockroom. 

She nearly slammed the stockroom door behind her and put her face in her hands wanting to scream in aggravation. 

“Is that young man bothering you, Christine?” 

Christine’s hands flew away from her face to see Erik standing on the other side of the stockroom. Oh, he is infuriatingly pristine in his crisp evening suit and bone white mask! She internally ranted. He had his head tilted to the side as he considered her and it angered her that the sight was somewhat endearing to her.

“Have you been spying on me?” He nearly snapped, folding two stiff arms in front of her and tapping her foot. 

“Spying? My dear, as you already know, I prefer to stay abreast of the occurrences within my club. I am in a very lucrative and illegal business, there are inherent threats involved and I prefer to squash them before they arise.” He smoothly replied with the confidence of an emperor.

“Why is it that you fail to appear to the rest of the staff here? Why only me?”

“You need to be watched more carefully. If you will recall, you did pull a knife on me.” His lips quirked up on one side. Christine found the sight both charming and enraging. He was so suave with his responses; it made her blood boil. “Now, answer me, is that handsome aristocrat harassing my valued employee?”

“No, he is persistent, but nothing I cannot handle.” She stubbornly insisted. 

His golden eyes seemed to glow with something she couldn’t read, something almost dangerous. I gave her an unexpected thrill. “I will happily have the muscle remove him in such an embarrassing manner he would never dare show his dandy face around here again.” Erik lazily curled one of his hands and inspected his nails.

“You sound jealous.”

“Jealous?” Erik placed his hand on his chest with fingers spread out, his mouth agape in mock offense. “Do not flatter yourself, my dear. I have no time for such a trivial emotion.”

“Good, because it would be quite silly to be jealous. You and I hardly know each other.” She turned the dial on the vaults combination lock and entered the space to fetch the bottle of Champagne. Once she had exited and the vault door was secure, she turned to Erik who was giving her a burning expression. As though being pulled by an invisible tether, he took one long stride toward her.

“Your hair…” He mused almost dreamily. 

She self-consciously patted the chin length golden curls that had become wild and unruly from her run through the rain. Now dry they were refusing to stay down, instead framing her face like a frizzy halo of ringlets. “Oh, I know. They look a fright.”

He reached a lithe arm toward her, the fingers of his thin, dexterous hand ghosting her hair. His yellow eyes adopted an almost hazy quality. “I think I like them best like this.”

Molten heat flooded her cheeks. Suddenly breath seemed to fail her. Dizzily she tipped her head to him. “Thank you.” She nearly whispered. “Now, if you will excuse me, I must get back to the duties for which you hired me. I must deliver this illegal giggle water to that man at the bar,” Here she softened and said almost timidly while averting her eyes “who I have no interest in pursuing.”

She did not wait for Erik’s reaction before spinning towards the exit and leaving the room. 

Raoul was all smiles when Christine returned with the bottle. The band was playing Blue Skies, a song Christine loved but it seemed all wrong at that particular moment. How peculiar the effect can be when a jovial song accompanies such a cumbrous situation. Inside she was cringing, the whole circumstance was tying her stomach in sailor knots. Raoul was an incredibly sweet man; Christine could tell he must be, his very demeanor oozed of chivalry. He carried a sort of innocent obliviousness she found adorable while simultaneously unattractive. Never before had she found herself in a situation in which she would be required to reject a man. Oh, how awful she felt. 

The club was nearly empty, the hour growing late. When the cork of the champagne bottle was loosened, Christine flinched. Arthur caught her eye and winked to which she responded by subtly shaking her head and giving him the look of death. As he poured the two glasses, Christine was somewhat relieved for the tall bubbly glass of effervescent booze. One glass was sufficient to give her head a slight spin. 

In Paris she and Meg would often drink wine with their meals together at this lovely bistro down the street. On one particularly celebratory evening Christine had consumed three glasses. Her lack of coordination was so poor that, slumped against Meg’s shoulder, the petite ballerina was obliged to half-carry her all the way home. Meg teased her relentlessly the following morning, insisting Christine said and did things for which she had no recollection. ‘You can get drunk on a thimble of wine’ Meg had jabbed.

Raoul handed her the glass flute; she observed the tiny bubbles frantically rushing to the surface of the glass. The fizzing liquid tickled her nose when she held it close to smell the tangy bouquet of the sweet drink. 

“To old friends meeting anew.” Raoul toasted while gently clinked his glass to hers. She sat on a bar stool and crossed her legs. Christine took a large sip from her drink, the fermentation and bubbles tickling her throat. She gave Raoul a polite smile, desperately hoping he would not take any of her kindness for more than what it was. Leading him on was certainly not her objective.

“Christine,” He began “You have been ever present on my mind since I saw you last. I was not given an opportunity to speak with you, but I feel that our lives intersecting once more has surely been fate.”

Internally Christine grimaced, she was afraid the conversation would head in this direction. “It may just be a very small world, Raoul.” She glanced up to see Arthur on the other side of the bar, pretending not to eavesdrop, but he was doing a poor job of it. 

“No, Christine. I believe I may be falling in love with you.”

Christine began to choke on her second sip of champagne. Coughing and patting her chest, her eyes burning from the small amount of champagne that managed to creep into her sinuses. “Oh Raoul. There is no way you could possibly. We don’t know one another at all.” It suddenly occurred to her it was the second time that night she had used that sentence, albeit under very different contexts. 

“But I feel it Christine! You can’t deny there must be some purpose to our meeting once more.”

Christine took a steadying breath and set her glass of champagne down, lamenting she could not finish the rest of the alcohol infused beverage. Perhaps it would make this next part much easier. She leaned forward and grasped Raoul’s hands in hers, a hopeful expression lit up his eyes and she immediately felt horrible. 

“Raoul, I don’t feel it. I am so sorry. I’m not the woman you are looking for.” Her voice was etched in deep sympathy.

A look of pure mortification crossed his face and he pulled his hands away. Blushing deeply, he pulled out his wallet, yanked a few errant bills from within and slid them across the bar next to the bottle of French contraband. Standing abruptly, he tipped his head to Christine and said. “I’m not sure if I can just accept that, Christine. I am certain fate will bring us together again.”  
Turning on the heels of his expensive dress shoes, he exited the club, opening his umbrella as he exited. 

Christine picked up her glass and swiftly downed the last of her drink. Arthur approached her with an impressed look on his face. “I could learn a thing or two from you, Christine. If only I can only tell my friend what you did there, perhaps it would save us both some future pain.”

She sighed. “I feel so terrible. It wasn’t my intent to harm anyone’s feelings.” 

He picked up the bottle and shook it. “Looks like you and I are celebrating that lovely spine you’ve grown. We have a couple more glasses left.” Turning he poured himself a glass and poured Christine a second. “I give up, what was the C you spotted?”

Christine grinned, turning around on her stool she pointed up to the ceiling in the corner of the club. “See that little cherub there carved into the design of the wood ceiling?” 

He squinted his eyes and whistled. “You’re observant. I would have never noticed that, and I consider myself to have a keen eye for detail.”

The two finished their drinks in relative silence as the band began to pack up their instruments. Closing time was upon them and Christine was glad of it. Her head was spinning from the two glasses of champagne, giving her a warm, sleepy, floating feeling. Certainly, it took the some of the discomfort of her rejection to Raoul away. 

Her closing tasks were few, as the night had proven to be so slow. Keenan came to the bar to bid the pair farewell. He typically left once they had locked the doors. Christine waved him off.

“You can head out too, Christine.” Arthur winked “You’ve had an interesting evening of turning down professions of love.”

She dramatically rolled her eyes. “Very well. I’ll see you tomorrow night.” She gently touched his shoulder. “Goodnight, friend.”

As she exited into the back alley, she was thoroughly relieved to see the rain had let up. The air was warm, full of moisture. The sounds of the city were eerily quiet, the storm had chased most of the citizen inside. Closing the back door behind her, Christine made her way towards the street.

Turning the corner, she was surprised to see Keenan. He was facing four men all dressed in dark clothing and caps pulled down over their faces. They were having some kind of argument, but she could not make out the words. There was a strange familiarity in Keenan’s tone, it was obvious he knew these men. 

Christine was readying to pass them when she saw the flash of a knife appear in one of the men’s hands. Keenan suddenly aware of the blade and Christine’s sudden presence, turned to her and cried. “Run!” That was when the first man lunged forward, getting a clean swipe of his sharp blade in the side Kennan’s throat. The moment seemed to drag in a slow blur, so surreal that Christine could not fathom it was occurring. Surely, she would awake from this lucid nightmare at any moment.

Christine felt the warm spray of something hitting her face as she let out a soprano scream of sheer terror. Her voice was no longer her own. As she stumbled backward another man leapt onto Keenan and fervently shanked him repeatedly with the blade of his knife a dozen times. She could hear the wet, punching sound of the blade entering his body over and over again. Keenan was moaning and gurgling, his death rattle ringing in her ears as he dropped to the ground.

Yet another man turned his attention onto Christine. The two made eye contact, his eyes carried a dangerous gleam. She could only register the fact that this man had the reddest hair she had ever seen and a nose that was noticeably crooked from a prior injury. Then he pulled a small gun from his pocket. It was then that she drew enough presence of mind to flee. Her legs scrambled to run in the opposite direction, towards the opposite end of the alley. The street was looming far ahead, so close yet seemingly so far. She could hear their hard footfalls echoing behind her, then a man cried out. Pistol fire erupted at the precise moment the heel of one of her treacherous dilapidated kitten heeled shoes decided to break clean off. Hurtling towards the ground, her hands spread palms out in front of her to take the fall. Before the unyielding ground could greet her, a pair of talon sharp hands grabbed her waist and yanked her upright. A hand was covering her mouth to keep her from screaming. The gun fire continued, ricocheting around the brick and cobblestone of the alleyway like fireworks.

She heard a heavy sound, a clicking and then darkness. Hot blood was racing through her ears, the sound of the frenzied pumping was deafening. Shaking like a leaf in a hurricane, her breath coming out in shallow gasps, she tried to make sense of where she was. Suddenly aware that the hand had been removed from her face, she could still feel the length of a body holding her close. 

“Be still, ma chérie.” The smoke and honey voice purred into her ear. “You are safe, Christine.” 

She nearly cried in that moment, her relief radiating off of her in palpable waves. “Erik.” She breathed. Turning in the dark towards him she threw her arms around his waist and began to sob. A pair of stiff arms enfolded them around her in the pitch black and patiently held her as she cried heavy tears into his chest. 

For now, she knew she was safe.


	13. Stay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU SO MUCH to all my lurkers and reviewers. It gives me so much joy to see that people enjoy the story and it really keeps my fingers typing!

Chapter Thirteen: Stay

Darkness curled around their joined forms as he allowed her to release her fear and relief into the jacket of his suit. Erik’s hands twitched with uncertainty as he considered what to do next. The sensation of having this slight woman wrapped gingerly, yet awkwardly in his arms was so innately foreign. Never had he comforted another soul in this manner, he felt completely out of his depth. Her cries did something to him that he could not fully register, something primal he could not fully comprehend, a great stirring was forming within his chest that made him feel slightly ill. For once in his life, he was truly complexed by his own motivations. This lovely woman before him should never have been required to endure such violence, to fear for her safety in the manner she had this evening. Here he was acting the part of the silent protector while understanding his role in creating the very danger he sought to protect her from.

“Where are we?” She finally whispered, once the heaving of her sobs had reduced to gentle hiccoughs. 

“Someplace safe.” He replied evasively. “Are you at all harmed?” 

She released him, the warmth of her soft frame leaving his rigid form like a fleeing lover, leaving only the familiar cold it its wake. He could see her considering her body for a moment before replying. “My ankle, but only a bit. My shoe has broken.” He saw her eyes grow large in the dark, as an enormously terrible thought emerged in her head. “Arthur! What if he has been harmed?”

“He is also safe. Nadir has intercepted him.” He heard the heavy relieved breath leave her lungs and watched her shake her head dazedly. “Come, let us get you somewhere more comfortable. I will be required to carry you. The ground here is not even.” To this he saw her respond with a gentle nod.

“Yes.” She said quietly. 

He hoisted her form into his arms, discomfited by the pleasure her closeness brought him. Some sweetly floral fragrance permeated his senses as he made his way through the inky black tunnel system towards their destination. The heat of her body, the soft fanning of her breath occasionally hitting the side of his throat, that glorious odor wafting from her soft curls, it was all too much for him. Some violently tender emotion was blooming within his being and he wanted to squash it before it saw light. 

When they reached the hidden door he sought, it was both blessed and cursed. It would most certainly be the first and last time he would be permitted to hold a woman this intimately and he silently died inside at the thought of bringing it to an end. Reaching up high to release the inconspicuous latch, he indulged himself one last time by tipping his head forward and taking a slight intake of breath near the wild mane of her hair. He could only imagine how utterly perverse he must appear, had there been light for her with which to see him she would certainly scream at the ghoul who was sniffing her hair like some love-starved fiend.

The door gently swung open and he entered the office. He was not anticipating Nadir to already be inside, nor was he prepared to see Arthur with him. The young barkeep seemed thoroughly shaken, his face wide with a flabbergasted expression as Erik entered the space with Christine in his arms. The sight must have truly been bizarre after all the events that evening as his employer waltzed through the wall with a woman in tow. He was a bit irked having the secret to this passage now compromised, particularly after the revelation that Keenan may not have been trustworthy from the start. Still, there was nothing to be done at the moment. Later steps would be taken to ensure the security of the passage.

Arthur did not seem to acknowledge their strange method of entry. “Christine!” He cried “Oh God, you’re bleeding!”

As Erik set Christine down, she shook her head and took a seat in the chair behind the desk. Holding up her hands she seemed to finally register the blood that had splattered all over her person. “I don’t think this is my blood…” She muttered, her voice quaking.

“Thank God. Christine.” Arthur nearly cried. “I heard all those shots. I was beside myself with fright. I thought you were killed!”

“I’m not sure how he could have missed me…” She said somewhat hazily. Her eyes were slightly swollen and reddened from crying. 

“When he opened fire, he was not shooting at you.” Erik stated plainly.

Christine put her head in her hands, now given the knowledge that Erik had truly done something miraculous that night. It was all too overwhelming. 

“What happened?” Nadir asked Erik in Farsi. 

“One of the men got away, he had a gun, but I managed to take care of three before I was required to make for the tunnel with Christine.” Erik replied back in the same language and looked down as Christine who was listening while quite obviously incapable of understanding a word that was said. Those beautiful blue eyes had the vacant look of incomprehension. Erik gave Nadir a piercing look and firmly said “I had no choice but to kill, Nadir.”

The Persian shook his wary head and heavily sighed “You have not broken your vow, Erik. I believe this circumstance demanded it.” His hand went to his face and rubbed his eyes. “This is such a mess. Why is this happening?” 

Erik sighed. “I am unsure, but I intend to find out. I believe for now; the best course of action is to temporarily shutter our doors. Heaven knows the 300 club does it every time they get raided and no one bats an eye.”

Nadir nodded in agreement. 

“What’s going on?” Arthur interjected; his brow furrowed as he attempted to make sense of the situation, frustrated he could not understand the language the two men spoke.

“We’re closing the club for a while, perhaps a week, until we deem it safe to reopen.” Nadir announced. “We are not sure why there was an attack, but we are now under the impression it may be connected to the other murder that occurred two days ago.” His voice was calm as he relayed this news.

“Keenan seemed to know the men.” Christine’s shaky voice penetrated the conversation. “I’m not sure why, but I could tell by the way he spoke with them.”

Nadir’s attention went to Erik who nodded. “It appears he knew of the plot but was attempting to stall it. He was involved somehow, but in what manner it is too difficult to say” Erik informed Nadir in Farsi. “We need to get these two to their homes…it is best to avoid the East side of the building.” He said darkly, his meaning quite clear to Nadir.

Neither Christine nor Arthur were aware of the four dead bodies lying in the alley. Keenan was a bloody mess from the slash to his throat and the dozen punctures to his torso. The remaining three men lay dead with their heads at disturbingly unnatural angles, their necks broken with a weapon only Erik and his partner were intimately familiar with. 

Nadir turned toward Arthur. “You live merely blocks away, correct?” He asked.

“I do.” Arthur reluctantly replied. “Why?” 

“I want to ensure you get home safely.” 

Arthur nodded. “I’ll be okay. I’m not worried about myself; I’m worried about her.” He jutted his chin towards Christine who was staring down vacantly at the expensive empty cherry wood desk. 

“I am escorting her home.” Erik assured him, he looked down again to the shaken young woman with something glowing in his golden eyes that both Arthur and Nadir did not miss “You may both leave. I will keep stay with her.”

Arthur approached Christine, squatting down next to her chair. “Christine.” He softly spoke, breaking her out of her frightened reverie. Her cornsilk eyes met his, as he placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Is there a telephone in your home?” 

Christine nodded. “Yes, there is.”

“Good.” Arthur reached into his back pocket, retrieving his small notebook and pencil from within. He quickly scribbled some digits upon the parchment and ripped the page out. “This is my telephone number, I want you to call me, yes? Let me know when you get home and call me again in the morning.” 

A tear slid from the corner of Christine’s eye and she quickly swiped it away. “I will.” She took the slip of paper and neatly folded it. “Thank you, Arthur.” Her eyes locked with his. “Please get home safe, I don’t think I could endure it if something happened to you as well.”

He rubbed her shoulder in comfort before standing and tipping his head to Nadir, the two moved to make their exit from the office.

Nadir stopped and said. “I’m going to call the police in fifteen minutes. Take the West side of the building, get her home. I will keep them distracted and attempt to remove any heat from our side.”

Erik subtly bowed his head in agreement.

Now alone, Erik knelt once more beside Christine. “Christine.” He spoke gently. In response her sad eyes met his, two more tears cascaded down her face cutting lines through the blood dried on her face. “Would you like to get cleaned up?” He softly asked as though speaking to a scared child.

“Please.” She said, her voice cracking as more tears threatened to appear.

He rose fully and extended a long-fingered hand to aid her from the velvet covered chair. As she placed her soft hand within his, the sudden quickening of his heart did not escape his attention. Silently berating the traitorous and hideous organ pounding behind the cage of his ribs, he escorted her out of the office towards the powder room. He released her hand and stood back to await her outside the door.

“Please, I don’t want to be alone.” She fervently breathed. “Will you please stay with me?”

Unsure of his further course of action, yet helpless to resist her plea, Erik entered the room with her. The buzzing of the incandescent bulbs around the large vanity mirror against the wall filled the air. When he caught his reflection, he subtly flinched. Three and a half decades on this godforsaken planet and he still could not get used to the occasional sight of himself in reflective surfaces. Christine gasped as she took in her own image within the mirror. The arterial spray from Keenan’s carotid had covered her face, throat and one of her arms. It appeared as though she had just viciously slaughtered something herself.

Erik made quick work grabbing towels from within a small cupboard and wetting them. The sooner he had her cleaned up, the less traumatic this would be. Standing in front of her, blocking her view from the macabre image of her own reflection, he began to delicately clean the blood from her face. As he worked to wash away the gore from her pale throat, he sang to her a simple lullaby to assuage her fears. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to drift away on the sound of his voice, to disappear in a misty realm of sound. 

Standing hunched over made his task difficult so he pulled a stool from the vanity by the mirror and sat upon it to better reach her. Gently wiping with a new moistened cloth against her face, he became aware of her stare. Her curious gaze was fixated upon his mask, after a lifetime with the article he had become adept at recognizing that particular form of stare.

He sighed as he continued to clean her up. “Your curiosity is not unusual. However, I assure you that you would not like what you find beneath it.” He begrudgingly informed her; his voice laced with the faintest thread of woe. Her eyes met his as though startled that he would breach the subject willingly. She looked guilty as though he had just read her mind verbatim. 

“I didn’t mean to stare.” She whispered apologetically “I’ve just never seen you in so much light. The club, the stock room are both so dimly lit.”

“I am accustomed to stares, Christine.” He said as he neared the end of his task. “However, now you know why I do not appear to many others.”

“Why do you appear to me?” She quietly asked as he dabbed the blood from her nose. 

He paused and looked intently into her eyes, his amber irises glowing bright in the brilliant light of the lightbulbs of the powder room, the black pupils dilating slightly as he gazed at her. “I do not know.” He confessed. 

The task was done, there was blood still clinging to the fine strands of her pale-yellow hair, but she looked less gruesome than she had. The low bellow of a police siren broke through the silence. 

“We need to go, Christine.” He gathered the towels and tossed them into a waste bin. 

They entered the office again and entered the passage they had previously used. Christine was now beginning to understand how Erik appeared and disappeared at will, how he was capable of being everywhere at once. How many secrets did this building carry? She was unsure whether to be impressed or appalled by the ingenuity but decided on the former.

As they descended and ascended tunnels and stairs the world seemed to have no direction. The underground maze seemed to have no rhyme or reason, but only moments later they entered through another wall and into a garage. Inside was a beautiful new Rolls Royce Phantom automobile, a gorgeous piece of black and chrome machinery. Under different circumstances, Christine would have been delighted.

Erik opened the door to the garage, yet another seamless door that appeared from seemingly nowhere. Acting as the chivalrous host, he strode around the car and opened the passenger side for her. As he was sitting into the driver’s seat, the sound of more sirens rang into the warm summer night. Turning the key in the ignition brought the lavish machinery to life with the forceful purr of the combustion engine. Erik pulled the car out of the garage, hopped out gracefully, closed the garage door and reentered the cab again. 

When they entered the street and began to speed away in the opposite direction from the murders, Christine let out the tense breath she was holding. As they placed more distance between themselves and The Gilded Cage, she felt a weight begin to lift. She placed her face in her hands and began to quietly sob again. Erik concentrated on the road, his insides burning to comfort her.

A quarter of an hour later, they pulled in front of Christine’s building. The entire duration of the drive Erik had been dreading this moment. He turned off the engine of the vehicle and turned in the seat towards her. She was looking out the window up towards the building as though she too was not sure whether to stay or go.

“Christine.” Erik began “I feel it probably best if you do not resume work until I am certain it is safe again.” 

Her head spun away from the window and he did not miss the slight quiver of her lip. Her brows drew together in a pained expression.

“Will I not see you again for so long?” She whispered. 

He cocked his head to the side, perplexed. “Would you like to see me?”

She silently nodded as two large tears rolled down her face and hung upon her cheeks like perfect jewels. 

“Do not cry.” He breathed “It pains me to see you cry.” He reached a slender index finger and swiped away one of the tears. “If that is truly your wish, I will make it so.”

That seemed to satisfy her, for what reason Erik was not certain. Perhaps the events of the evening had made her go slightly mad, but he was not willing to question it for one moment. If she asked for the moon in that instance, he would have sought to find a roll of paper big enough to wrap it. 

“How will I contact you?” She asked, her voice thick with tears.

“You won’t.” He said simply “You will not need to. I will come to you.” 

“I am frightened, Erik. Those men. Who were they?” She reached forward and gripped his one of his hands tightly. He fought not to revel in the sensations her touches this night had brought, the amount of physical contact with this angel of his had been profound.

“I do not know, but I swear to you that I will find out.” He gently tipped her chin up with his other index finger “I give you my word, I will never let anyone harm you.”

He knew the determination she now saw in his eyes and in that moment, he knew he had grown ties to this woman that he could not possibly fathom.


	14. Intersections

Chapter Fourteen: Intersections 

By the time he had managed to escort her to the front door of her apartment, Christine felt as though someone had completely removed her bones and replaced them with sandbags. Every movement was like swimming in molasses. Her mind buzzed, conjuring thoughts of everything and nothing. Her tired eyes found the red door too garish to look upon, the color bleeding heavy under the light of the hallway. Standing there with Erik, in front of that glossy red painted door, she felt leaden. In one hand she held her mutinous pair of shoes, one looking particularly sad with its missing heel. In her other hand she held a smashed bit of paper with Arthur’s telephone number scrawled upon it. It hadn’t even occurred to her that she never gave Erik directions to her apartment, nor an address. 

She wanted the night to end but stood there woodenly with some unseen tether holding her in place. Her body did not feel like her own. 

“What happens now?” She whispered.

When he responded his voice covered her like a salve. It poured upon her as hot oil, lubricating her aching limbs and slipping through her ear canal like a welcomed spirit. “You will go inside, you will call Arthur, you will wash up and you will sleep.” The words were spoken like gentle commands and she immediately felt inclined to obey. There was something about his voice she could not seem to resist. Had he told her to throw herself down the stairwell she would have obliged. It terrified her, this power he suddenly had over her. Surely, she was merely mentally frayed from the tragic events of the evening, no man could possibly enslave another with the potency of his voice. Yet she knew, the moment she crossed the threshold of that apartment, she would follow his orders verbatim. She could do nothing but nod in acquiescence. 

She tilted her heavy head to gaze into his yellow eyes, his stare could swallow her whole in that moment, and she would be quite content with it. “Goodnight.” She choked; her voice thick with the remnants of all the tears she had shed that evening. She felt like the dried-out husk of a girl, afraid that without his heavy gaze upon her person she would simply blow away like soot in the wind. Did she exist now because he deemed it so? If he closed his eyes would she disappear? Rapidly blinking her eyes a few times, she willed the strange string of thoughts away.

His hand lifted up to brush an errant curl away from her face, the air stirring by her cheek as he did so. “Sleep well, mon petite canari.” He murmured with low, silken tones that slithered under her skin and warmly ran through her veins, bringing with it a wave of heady drunken sensation. 

When she finally entered the apartment and closed the door, she felt a great emptiness fall upon her, like a puppet who no longer had a hand to move it. Like an automaton, she dropped her shoes directly onto the floor and moved numbly to the telephone in the sitting room. The sleek handle of the receiver calling to her like a siren as it rested in its cradle. 

She was only now aware of the slip of paper crushed tightly within her fist. Had she truly been holding it this entire time unawares? As she uncurled her fingers, her hand began to tremble. The digits on the crumbled bit of paper stared back at her in the dim light of the streetlamp that filtered through the window. She was afraid to turn on the light, afraid that doing so would somehow prove the evening’s events were real. In the dark she could pretend it was all a terrible dream, that tomorrow morning she would wake and have some frivolous conversation with Meg about how uneventful the night had been. Nothing of import to report, She would say, tell me about the ghost again.

She lifted the receiver to her ear and with a quivering finger began to enter the number into rotary dial. The mechanical vibrating sound of the dial returning to its former position with each turn seemed deafening to her exhausted senses. A dull buzz emerged on the line as her call attempted to connect. 

“Christine?” Arthur’s voice sounded metallic as it was transmitted through miles of wire and straight into her ear. 

“Yes.” She breathed “You’re safe.”

“I’m safe. Are you okay, Christine?” There was a strain to his voice. He spoke to her as though she may crumble apart at any moment. 

“I believe so.” She murmured into the phone, conscious of the two sleeping women who currently occupied their beds in neighboring rooms. “Nothing feels real right now.” She confessed. 

“You’ve had a traumatic night. Get some sleep and call me in the morning. Promise me, yes?”

She nodded, then realized he had no way of seeing her. “Yes.” She agreed. “I’ll call in the morning…goodnight.”

As she set the receiver down upon its cradle, illumination appeared behind her. 

“Christine?” The groggy voice of Antoinette Giry. “I heard you out here, are you alright? It’s quite late.” When Christine turned around, she saw the older woman dressed in a feminine pink night dress trimmed with lace and ribbon. It was the only time she had seen Antoinette wearing anything but dark clothing, making the surrealism of the evening more pronounced. 

The events of that night fell onto Christine’s spirit like a grand piano falling from the sky. Squeezing her eyes shut she furiously shook her head and fought the tears that threatened to spill again. 

“Good heavens, child. What on earth is wrong?” The older Giry woman rushed to Christine. As she approached, she noticed the blood in her hair and gasped. “Have you been hurt?” 

“No.” Christine replied but did not want to speak anymore on the matter. Antoinette seemed to make the situation at hand more complicated. Christine had, until now, existed in two separate realities, her life at the club and her life with the Giry’s. This situation forced the invisible boundary that lay between those two worlds to intersect. Part of her worried the older woman would blame herself for securing her a position at the club. Another worried she would disapprove of the odd relationship she had begun to develop with its mysterious owner. 

“Sit.” Antoinette gestured to the couch. Christine sat upon the slightly worn green velvet sofa, running her hands along the fabric absent mindedly while Antoinette took a seat next to her. “Tell me, child, what happened?” Her aged hands reached out to grab Christine’s in a soft and comforting grip. 

“Tonight, a fellow employee at the club was murdered.” She took in a shaky breath. “I was there when it happened.”

“Good Lord, Christine!” Antoinette’s expression was startled, then her arms spread wide and she brought Christine into a smothering embrace. “Thank God you’re here! Please, tell me everything.”

As Christine orally relived the night’s events, she was careful to keep some details out. She did not divulge her knowledge of the secret tunnels running throughout Erik’s building. Perhaps she felt a misguided sense of loyalty to the strange man, but at the time it just felt like information that ought to be omitted. 

Arthur had told her stories of tunnelways being built all throughout cities for the purposes of smuggling and running liquor. Stories about some of the top organized crime bosses were common discussion behind the bar. Al Capone, Johnny Torrio, Charles “Lucky” Luciano, George Remus, and the ever mysterious “The Shade” were all sensational, entertaining news material. Arthur would regale Christine of all their infamous deeds and crimes as though they were violent, operatic tales. He would then assure her the men who owned The Gilded Cage were not like that, ‘Not everybody in this industry is violent, Christine’ Arthur had said one night after telling her a particularly brutal story about one of the men torturing and butchering three of his own employees after suspecting them of theft. He must have seen the terrified look on her face and felt necessary to give her reassurance of the less cruel nature of their own employers. 

Antoinette was visibly distraught by Christine’s tale of the night’s violence, looking more and more ill as the events were relayed. 

“I feel responsible.” Antoinette lamented. Her brow furrowed and anger replaced the woeful expression “He assured me you would be completely safe, that the manner he ran his business was different. I would have never, ever sent you there had I known there was risk of this kind. Oh, I could kill that man right now.” She fumed. Antoinette’s anger was alien to Christine, the woman had always carried herself with poise, albeit a bit ‘head in the clouds’ at times. Meg often teased that, despite her stern demeanor, her mother was the most trusting woman on the planet, ‘She once believed me when I told her gullible was not in the dictionary.’ Meg had snickered. Antoinette’s current fury contrasted with the lace and ribbon gown she wore, under different circumstances Christine would have found the sight amusing. 

Christine wanted to defend Erik, but she was just too exhausted and confused. Does he warrant my defense? I don’t even truly know him. Buzzed the thoughts in her scattered mind. She remained silent; her weary eyes fixated at a vacant spot on the floor.

The two women sat in a troubled silence for a few minutes. Christine’s eyes began to droop, and she was fairly certain she would fall over at any moment. The silence was broken when she finally spoke. “I must wash up, Madame. If I don’t get some rest, I fear I will fall apart.”

The older woman nodded and lowered her head into her hands. “Yes, Christine. Please get some rest. We will talk more in the morning.”

After washing up, she still felt like a woman saturated in blood, still felt unclean. Her wooden legs carried her towards bed, and she lay upon the mattress, its soft form supporting her drained body like a doting paramour. Meg was sleeping like the dead, oblivious to everything that had happened, and Christine envied her innocence in that moment.

The face in the plaster above her was giving that anguished expression it often gave and for a moment she thought perhaps the plaster face had known this night was intended to happen all along, that it had been trying to communicate that to her. Frustrated by her own superstition, she closed her eyes and welcomed the blissful nothingness of sleep.

It felt like only minutes later when she opened her eyes, the sun bright in her face as it streamed through the thin lace of the curtain. Christine looked up at the plaster face on the ceiling and the smug woman with a secret was back again. She wondered if she ought to visit a local hardware store to acquire a bit of sandpaper to buff out that spot but was unsure how she would reach the ceiling without a ladder.

Meg was not in her bed, uncommon for the tiny woman who loved to sleep in, but the ballerina had a performance that evening and would be in rehearsals for most of the morning. With a groan, Christine arose from her bed to join the two Giry women at the dining table. 

When she entered the room, the two women were speaking in hushed tones. Upon Christine’s appearance in the room, the two women abruptly halted their conversation and gave Christine a cheery greeting that seemed forced. She sighed, now that she was rested, she had her wits about her.

“Please, don’t treat me like some tragic figure who’s come back from the war. There is no need to walk on eggshells, I am going to be fine.” She insisted as she took a seat at the table. 

“I can’t believe you’re sitting at this table all proper like nothing happened, Christine.” Meg was looking at her with skepticism hidden in her gaze, observing Christine’s face for some small hint of her wellbeing. 

“Life must continue to move forward, Meg. I’ll feel much better doing something else to keep my mind occupied rather than lay in bed with my thoughts.” She did not intend to sound so curt, but she was desperate to think about anything else. When she closed her eyes, she could still hear the gruesome, sloppy gurgle of Keenan’s final breath. She had fallen asleep with ears still ringing from the gunshots. “Would you please pass the coffee?”

“I’m just amazed. I would be falling to pieces right now if I went through what you went through.” Meg almost sounded excited to be associated with such adventure through proxy, while attempting to keep the concern in her voice. She leaned in and whispered, “I heard the owner saved your life, was it like a Douglas Fairbanks film?”

Christine shook her head. “Meg, please. I’d rather—”

A knock on the front door of the apartment interrupted Christine’s sentence. Meg looked at her with wide eyes. “Do you think it’s the police?” She whispered.

Antoinette exited the kitchen and approached the door. “Yes?” She asked through the door without opening. 

The muffled voice of a boy could be heard from where Christine sat, but she was unable to decipher the words clearly. Whatever words were said were cause for Antoinette to unlatch the door and greet the boy. 

The boy was a teenager, long and lanky, who held two packages stacked in his hands. “I am told to deliver these to a Miss Daaé.” He announced, his voice carrying the awkward cracking associated with pubescence. 

Antoinette thanked the boy and accepted the packages. “Would you like a pastry for your walk?” She asked the boy.

“No ma’am, I appreciate it though.” He tipped his head and departed. 

Antoinette carried the boxes over to Christine’s seat at the table. “Were you expecting something, Christine?”

“No.” Her face scrunched up in though “I have no clue what it could be.” 

Her fingers began to tear at the thin, brown paper artfully wrapping the two boxes. When the lid of the first box was lifted Christine felt the corner of her mouth involuntarily quirk upward. Shoes. Very practical shoes. They were better quality and more fashionable than her broken pair had been. Enclosed was an envelope with Christine’s name written in scarlet ink. Christine did not need to open the envelope to know who had sent this gift, only Erik, magician that he is, would have the audacity to guess a woman’s shoe size.

When the second box was unwrapped and the second lid lifted, the three Giry women gasped. Inside were a pair of gold and silk T-strapped heels. The silk had intricate floral embroidery and delicate beadwork done in silver and gold thread. The heel was elegant and dainty. Christine had seen shoes like these for sale in shop windows catering to the well-to-do.

“Who bought you those shoes, Christine?!” Meg exclaimed giddily. She was not privy to the same information her mother was. Christine could see the older Giry woman’s irritated expression, it was obvious she believed the gift to be completely audacious and inappropriate of Erik. 

“Douglas Fairbanks.” Christine grumbled. She pulled the glitzy shoe from its box and shook her head “I don’t even own a dress to befit these shoes? Why would he buy me something this extravagant?” 

“Try them on!” Meg urged “I wouldn’t question it, I would just take the shoes and run.”

When Christine’s feet slid into the gorgeous silk shoes, she felt like royalty. She nearly rolled her eyes, of course they would fit like a glove. Clearly Erik’s gift of observation was peerless. 

Despite everything that had happened the night before, despite her concern over Erik’s true character, she still found herself incredibly charmed by the act. 

Only after the Giry women had left the apartment for the day was Christine willing to open the envelope. Inside on thick parchment was one sentence. 

Heed the Violin’s call. -E

Flipping the paper over to check for any more writing she found no more written. Perplexed, Christine began to chew on her thumbnail. It then occurred to her that she was due to call Arthur. The slip of paper with his telephone number sat by the phone, welcoming her to dial it. 

She dialed in the number and awaited a response as the call attempted to connect.

“Christine, please tell me it’s you.” Arthur answered. 

She stammered. “Yes…I told you I would call.”

He sounded anxious; something was off. “Christine, have you seen the morning paper?” 

“No, we don’t receive one here and I have yet to leave the apartment.”  
She heard a sigh on the other end of the line. “Christine, the papers say the body count last night was four…Keenan was one of them.”

“Shot?” She squeaked

“No…” Arthur started; he was reluctant to continue. “Someone broken the necks of the remaining three men. Did you see what happened?”

Christine’s mouth had suddenly become very dry as the color left her face. “Everything happened so fast…I didn’t see anything. I heard so many gunshots and then I fell and…” The world was spinning now. She heard Arthur saying something on the other end of the line, but her racing thoughts were trampling them into a pulp.

That was when she was certain she had discovered how dangerous Erik truly was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to my readers and fellow phans for all the wonderful feedback and positive words!


	15. The Siren's Call

Chapter Fifteen: The Siren’s Call

That night replayed in her head over and over again. Like a broken phonograph, she kept playing the same violent song in her head, attempting to remember anything new. She recalled the man with the gun, his red hair, his bent nose, the way the gun gleamed in the streetlight. She remembered the sounds of gunfire ricocheting about the alleyway as she fled for her very life, her heartbeat in her ears competing with the noise. Her ankle had twisted as her foot fell from under her, at the time she had not realized her shoe had broken. As the ground was coming to meet her mercilessly, she recalled the hands that gripped her waist, the sensation of being risen, the cold hand on her mouth, the grinding sound of stone on stone and the blackness that followed. 

It had all happened in a matter of seconds. Erik had appeared, broke the necks of three strong men and dodged a rain of bullets, and managed to pull her to safety in less than half of a minute. Only an exceptionally lethal individual could accomplish such a feat. Christine was suddenly overcome with the cumbersome feelings that accompany such a revelation. This masked man whom she had become intrigued and fixated on was a terrifyingly efficient killer. His unearthly voice, his elegant hands, his gold eyes, that smug, sharp-toothed grin, they had all occupied most of her thoughts over the past few weeks. Sometimes she felt a pull towards him, as though they had known one another in another life, reincarnated to meet again. Why did she feel this nearly tangible connection to this unusual man? Now that she knew his deadly skills, what was she to do?

I cannot truly befriend a murderer. I simply cannot. She kept repeating to herself throughout the day. As she paced around the empty apartment, cleaning, reading, mending a dress, she continued to dwell and fret over the sticky predicament she found herself in. She found herself wondering if perhaps it was not really Erik who had not killed those three men after all. The doubt gave her immense comfort. Perhaps there was someone else in the alley that night. 

It was useless though. Erik had undoubtedly used his exceptional skills to break the necks of men like they were nothing but brittle chicken bones. She began to think back on the times she had been alone in his presence, for any sign she may have missed to indicate him as a threat. The exercise was moot, he had been nothing short of charming during each of their encounters. Aside from his uncanny ability to be everywhere at once. But the question begged repeating, had she been safe this entire time?

The day wore down like a candle burning to the end of its wick. Before she knew, the sun had gone down and she was still alone in the apartment. Both Giry women were busy at the Opera House, Meg had a performance that night and Christine would have attended had she known the sudden circumstances she had fallen into. If tonight had been any other night, she would have been serving expensive smuggled liquor to men wearing white spats and women decked in beaded finery. 

She prepared a small meal of bread and cheese. Her stomach was protesting like a labor strike. She had been too anxious to consume anything all day, running solely on one cup of coffee at breakfast. Sitting at the table, chewing on dry bread, deep in her thoughts, she was suddenly aware of her quivering bottom lip. A few tears slipped past her closed lids and she found she was unable to swallow the bite of bread in her mouth. For the first time since before her father’s death she had started to feel like she had a home. Her life here had become comfortable and now she was questioning everything she had previously felt. 

Putting her head into her hands she began to sob. She felt ridiculous, I ought to be stronger than this, she told herself. Still, the tears continued to fall until her eyes had become too weary to produce anymore. Taking in a shuddering breath, she looked at the clock. It was nearly ten o’clock at night. She had sat in that chair for over two hours crying and trying to eat a sad plate of bread and cheese.

Resigned to just give up her attempt at having a meal, she rose to clear her plate. Tonight, she would simply change into her nightdress and go to sleep. The thought of bed had just hardly been borne when she heard the first lilting note curling through the air like the reaching tendrils of an ivy. Crying into the night was the sweetest sound she had ever heard emitted from a Violin. Her father was a renowned player of the very instrument and she had never heard his strings produce a sound so hauntingly beautiful. Helpless to resist the siren’s call, she found herself approaching the sitting room window like a bewitched woman. Pulling aside the heavy curtain, her attention moved downward to the sidewalk below. 

Standing two stories below, cradling a dark violin against the crook of his slender neck, drawing the bow in a gesture that looked almost intimate, Erik stood, a tall, imposing man dressed in impeccable evening wear creating heavenly music. An occasional pedestrian would stop to gawk, and Erik would shoot them a look as if to say, ‘Do not dare approach me.’ Oh, how he seemed to tower over every person who passed him. 

He stopped when he had become aware of her gaze pointed towards him. Lowering the violin and bow to his side he raised one hand and curled his fingers in a beckoning gesture. An older woman stopped to ask him something, but he merely shooed her away with a flick of the bow. The sight was strangely surreal. Here he was, interacting with the general public, it somehow proved he truly existed, that he was flesh and blood. Those gold eyes angled up to her, glowing bright under the streetlamp, filled with unspoken expectations. 

Nodding her head to him, she left the window to fetch her shoes. Heed the call of the Violin, she must. 

When she exited the apartment building, he was leaning against the side of his Rolls Royce Phantom, which had been parked along the curb. He had an air of comfortable nonchalance as he lounged back against the unfathomably expensive automobile. A couple of people passing by had stopped to stare at the unique man and his prominent vehicle, but his eyes were fixated on her as she approached. Had he somehow grown taller since last she saw him? How had she not noticed how he loomed over her until now? 

Those yellow irises were otherworldly and the manner in which he observed her was unnerving. She felt as though he was meticulously dissecting her with his eyes, uncovering things even she had thought was hidden. How many secrets could he gleam from her with just his eyes? 

He opened the passenger door of the Phantom, the polished chrome glittering in the light of the streetlamp. Hesitating a moment, she attempted to weigh the pros and cons of getting into the cab of the vehicle with this man she now knew had such lethal capabilities. Staring at the proffered, open door and chewing the nail of her thumb, she felt his gaze heavy upon her. He must have sensed her reluctance, for when her eyes met his they appeared slightly saddened. The corners of his mouth tipped down slightly, his posture seemed to lose a bit of its imposing quality. Perhaps this was a terrible err of her judgement, but she could not ignore that brief hint of sorrow she saw in the depths of those gilded eyes. The sound of her heels on the sidewalk signaled her decision, she had decided to accept.

Erik awaited until she had become settled on the cool leather interior of the Rolls Royce before closing her door. Only a moment later had he hopped into the vehicle was preparing to start the engine, but she stopped him.

“Where are we going?” She asked. Her voiced sounded far away in her head because she was so incredibly nervous.

“Ah, that is a surprise, my dear.” He sounded amused, it was clear he enjoyed being in control.

“Erik. I am terrified of you.” She breathed. Suddenly her voice was quivering and she averted her eyes. 

“Why?” He softly asked. One long finger reached to her chin and gently tipped it up to look into his eyes. “What terrifies you?”

“For some inexplicable reason, I feel drawn to you.” She whispered with furrowed brow.

He hummed low. “As am I to you. Perhaps we ought to explore this phenomenon together?” His voice was laced with seduction, it made her slightly tremble.

She didn’t answer, instead she asked, “How did those three men die, Erik?”

He leaned back into his seat as though preparing to have a conversation about something tedious “What would you have me say?” His voice was now laced with irritation “Would it upset you that I am responsible for their deaths? Should I have stood and done nothing as those men aimed to steal you from this world?” He was somber, blunt, there was no remorse in his voice. He was right, she realized, he had saved her life and she was sitting here in his automobile judging him for it.

“How did you do it?” She started to fiddle with the fabric of her dress skirt. Suddenly she felt very ill.

“You do not need to fill your head with those images, mon petit canari.” He gently responded as he smoothed a curl around her face with spidery fingers. “You only need to concern yourself with the knowledge that I have the power defend your life when need be.”

“Are you like those other men? The ones in the news? Capone and all those others? The ones who kill dozens of men without quarrel?” She demanded, feeling suddenly brazen.

He scoffed. “I am not like other men. And I assure you, I am not some ridiculous crime lord or gangster who doles out the sort of cruelty like you are implying. I simply have the means of removing a threat when it is necessary.”

She tightly shut her eyes, preparing for the words she needed to say next “What if I ask right now never to see you again?”

He stilled; his eyes almost seemed to glow as he studied her intently “Is that what you truly wish?”

She threw her hands up to her face and shook her head “Oh, I don’t know! I’m so terribly confused right now! Up is down and right is left. I feel so lost.” Her voice was growing thick from the anxiety the conversation had brought on “I am so frightened by what you are capable of.” She fervently whispered.

“I would never harm you, Christine.” He said her name with such reverence it nearly broke her. When she looked at him again, he was staring at her as though he was certain she would disappear before his very eyes. “Grant me this one night.” He said with deceptive calm while his eyes had the hint of mild panic. “After that, if you truly wish I vanish…” His eyes grew dark with some pained emotion “You will never see me again.”

“Will you allow me to know who you are?” She straightened up as though preparing to make some legal agreement. She knew she was merely feigning courage.

He considered it a moment before tipping his head in acquiescence “I will allow you to ask me three questions about my person. I will decide what counts as one of the three questions, yes?”

This was the best offer she was going to get. “Very well. I accept to your terms.” She leaned back in her seat as he started the ignition. “Now, tell me, where are we going?” 

“Have you ever seen a dinosaur, Christine?” 

She shook her head in the negative as he shifted the Phantom into gear, and they drove off.


	16. The Plunge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should be studying right now, but this chapter was roaring to get out. 
> 
> Thank you for all the comments and reviews, it really helps me to see what has resonated with people. I appreciate all the kind support!

Chapter Sixteen: The Plunge

Together they drove up 77th street towards some mysterious destination. Christine was still running through questions in her head she would ask her strange companion. Three, that was the number of questions he said he would allow her to ask and she was certain she must ensure they were questions that mattered. This could very well be her only opportunity to decide whether to welcome his presence into her life. She felt as though she were standing on the precipice of something enormous, as though she were at the top of that rollercoaster again preparing to plummet into the great unknown. Never before had she been so scared as she was now, not even when her father had first shown his initial signs of illness. What would her father think about a man such as Erik? Inwardly she rolled her eyes, because she was quite certain if her father had known her salvation from the hands of violent men had come from Erik, he would have shaken the masked man’s hand and then requested to see his odd, dark violin.

When he pulled the Rolls Royce in front of the large Victorian Gothic brick building with corner towers featuring conical shaped roofs, Christine was perplexed. She had never been inside this building, but she was aware of where they were.

“It’s after ten at night, Erik. Aren’t they closed?” Christine asked while looking at the façade of the castle-like building. 

“Not to me.” He stated plainly, with regal authority, before exiting the automobile with his violin in tow. She sat in the cab of the vehicle with knitted brows while she watched him stride around the front of the Rolls Royce with all the confidence of an emperor. As he opened her door, he bowed slightly and offered her the tips of his fingers. Her dress upon the leather seat of the car must have created a bit of static electricity, for when she touched her fingers to his there was a sharp spark and a metallic snap. It startled her, causing her to suck in a breath, but she did not pull her hand away. In her mind she was still in that rollercoaster, anticipating the plunge. 

“Surely you do not intend to break in.” She nervously asked. 

He made a small, reprimanding sound with the tip of his tongue. “You wound me, Christine. I would never entangle you in such a crime.” He reluctantly released her hand and motioned her to follow him. “No, my dear, I have an arrangement. Please rest assured, you will not need to add breaking and entering on your list of lifetime accomplishments.”

“What sort of arrangement?” She was so frustrated with his short, cryptic methods of answering questions. He always said things with such few words, always compensating with his sharp wit. 

Erik looked down at her with those eyes that seemed to burn and said, “As we have discussed, I am not like other men and as such, I have requirements that other men do not have. My lifestyle is not without cost. I am wealthy out of necessity. I do not, for example, visit museums during the daytime, too many eyes for my taste, therefore, I visit them at night.” He was watching her face carefully as he delivered the most information about himself, she had ever received. “I am large donor of this museum, Christine. It affords me certain privileges, even bringing a beautiful woman late at night to look at dinosaurs.” Then he seemed to straighten up as though letting go of some terrible burden, taking an almost imperceptible deep breath. “And that, my dear, was your first question.”

Christine blushed; he had just called her beautiful. Her reaction did not escape his notice and she scolded herself for falling prey to such weakness. “Surely you can attend a museum during the day.” She was sure to make her question sound more like a statement, inwardly hoping he would divulge more information about himself without docking her anymore questions.

“Christine,” Oh, the way he said her name! It was breathtaking in its beauty; it was like hearing her name for the first time. “What was the first thing you noticed about my person when first we met?”

She self-consciously smoothed her dress, fretting over her answer. “That you were quite tall and very well dressed for a burglar.” She bit her bottom lip. 

He tutted her. “Your voice is so pretty you can nearly sell that lie.” She saw his smirk. “You have the luxury of walking through the park on Sundays and not a soul will gape, wide-mouthed in your direction. They would, perhaps, see your loveliness, but who could not.” He grew silent then let out a small sigh. “Everyone sees the mask Christine, they love to gawk, and I have grown quite tired of it.”

She felt immense guilt then; how many times had she desired to question him about what lay beneath the mask? I truly had been the first thing she had noticed about his person. “I do not want to make you feel that way.” She whispered, certain there was no way he could hear her, save for the way his posture momentarily stiffened, the way his fingers flicked just briefly as though startled. 

They had reached a side door of the American Museum of Natural History. Erik removed a keyring from his pocket and inserted it into the door. He had key privileges; it would seem.

“There are security guards, but they are aware of our visit here. We should have privacy throughout.” He gestured for her to enter. 

“You must really enjoy this museum to become a donor.” Another statement, surely, he would catch on to her game.

He hummed. “Yes, I have a passion for science and the arts. They are the things that have kept me alive, they give my life purpose.” He waved his hand absently.

He led her down a large hallway, past large bronze busts of men Christine had never heard of, scientists and explorers, she gathered. The sound of her heels echoed down the great hall. He stopped her before they rounded a corner into a mysterious room. He moved behind her and insisted she close her eyes.

“For what purpose?” She put her hands on her hips. 

“It will make the effect much better, trust me.” He insisted, with obvious glee in his voice. He had something planned, she could feel it.

“Very well.” She tipped her chin up slightly and fluttered her eyes closed. 

“I’m not sure I can trust you not to ruin the surprise.” He stated and her eyes shot open at him. “Therefore, I came prepared.” He flicked his wrist to miraculously present a beautiful purple silk scarf from thin air. He gently secured the cool, silky material over her eyes and carefully led her towards their destination.

She heard something snapping, heard the slight movement of his suit as he readied to do something. Taking a deep breath, she attempted to calm her anxiety. 

“Tilt your head up slightly.” She felt his cool, thin fingers beneath her chin, tilting her face upward. “Now, stay like that and remove the scarf.”

The very moment she removed the blindfold there came a mighty roar from the skeleton of a huge, monstrous creature. Leaping back, her heart was hammering in her chest. She spun around to see Erik creating the frightening sound with the strings of the violin. It had never occurred to her that a Violin was capable of making such a sound. He flashed her a grin, he had accomplished what he wanted to do. For the briefest of moments, he had made a long-dead dinosaur seem alive. Christine began to laugh, and laugh, and laugh. Her mirth was suddenly so great, tears were welling up in her eyes and her belly grew sore. She was doubled over, holding her stomach, giggling with glee while riding that pleasant wave of humor for as long as it would take her.

Swiping away the tears coursing down her cheeks, she turned to look back on the bones of the fully articulated skeleton. It was standing upright on two, large hind legs. Its small arms looked quite pathetic, but that was compensated by the deadly set of sharp teeth embedded in its skull.

“What a peculiar looking creature.” Christine placed her hand on her chest in awe. “Good heavens, can you imagine if such a thing roamed the earth today? He looks quite predatory.”

“They call it an Allosaurus. You are correct, it was an apex predator in its day.” 

“What do you suppose it looked like with skin?” Christine began to walk around the creature with a studious eye.

He folded his arms over his chest and tilted his head while observing the specimen. “Some hypothesize they looked like large lizards, but I think they have some bird-like characteristics.” He shrugged. “They believe these bones to be millions of years old, perhaps we will never know for certain what they looked like with flesh. Perhaps it is best to leave it to the imagination, yes?” 

Christine was mesmerized by the hall of bones, there was a number of creatures fully assembled and presented in postures that made them look as though they could spring to life and start walking at any minute. Some had incredibly long necks like a giraffe she had once seen at a zoo, others had strange duck-like bills attached to their skulls. In her mind’s eyes she was attempting to imagine what such beings looked like while living. 

The music shook her out of her daydream of a duckbilled creature walking on two legs down Madison Avenue, past all the fancy shops and boutiques. Erik was creating heavenly music from the violin again, music she had never heard before. The notes resonated within some secret place inside her chest and she felt a void being filled.

Keeping her back toward him, she closed her eyes and allowed that sound to curl itself around her like petals closing on a flower at night. Safe inside that wall of sound, she became aware of the way her heart was melting. The melody spoke of love and longing, she felt it inside her blood, running hot through her veins. The air seemed to be pulled from the room, she grew dizzy from the sheer intensity of the feelings the music evoked. It finally relented when his last note faded out, like the fevered whisper of a promise.

Her body was shaking, and she was suddenly aware that she was still in the museum. Where had she been just now? She seemed to have lost time. What had just happened?

Slowly turning to face him, she was struck by the ferocity of his gaze, the firm line of his lips. Something very important had just happened and he was gauging her reaction to it. 

“Who composed that?” Her softly asked, certain she already knew the answer.

“You did.” He simply said, then lifting his hand as though begging for alms he asked her “Will you sing for me?”

Her face heated. Singing in this large hall she would hear her voice echoing back to her. After experiencing the godlike sound of his own voice, she felt very inferior. She shook her head, dismissing his request. “I couldn’t possibly.” She shyly replied. 

His long legs carried him to her side in long, elegant strides. He softly spoke. “You have an exquisite gift, Christine. It would do me great honor If you would simply bestow of me one song.” Then his tone firmed. “Consider this a first lesson, yes?”

She silently studied him for a moment before asking, “Do you truly believe that I could sing opera? Am I not too old to begin learning? I have often heard Opera is a calling not a career, that one must start when they are but children.”

He shrugged gracefully, as though he had been expecting this question and was unconcerned. “While it is true that most operatic voices take years to develop, while the majority must begin the study while they are still very young,” He folded up a fist and placed it on his chest with superior confidence “None of them had the privilege of possessing an individual such as myself as their tutor. Besides,” He flicked his wrist as though the rest of what he just had said was frivolous. “I have never heard an instrument as pure and clear as yours. Trust me on this fact.”

“What shall I sing?” She relented. 

“Anything you like. Perhaps that one song I heard you singing, the one about the shadow?” 

She scrambled to remember the song he was referencing. “Me and my shadow?” 

“Yes. Sing that.” He walked a few feet away and sat before her on the display platform supporting the duck-billed dinosaurs. 

Her voice came out slightly quaking when she began the first verse of the song. Embarrassed by the sound, she felt the scarlet blooming in her cheeks. She tried to remember every tip from the scattering of former voice lessons her father had bought her. Too nervous to see his expression while she was putting herself on the butchers block to be judged, she closed her eyes tightly as she sang out the words. After the first verse she became aware of his hand gently placing itself on her belly while the other splayed out across her back. Her eyes flew open and she stopped singing. 

“Do not stop, I merely wish to show you how to breathe. You are not taking in full breaths. Pull back your shoulders, relax your chest, and imagine the air going deep in your belly.” He slid his hand up her back, the sensation was electric…perhaps she had not felt static electricity earlier after all. “Pull your spine up, like you are tethered from the ceiling by a rope.” His hand left her back and she missed the gentle pressure it was providing. “Now, sing the second verse like that.”

Such simple suggestions, and yet when she opened her mouth to sing, she was astounded by how different she sounded. The ringing of her voice bounced around the hallway and created an auditorium effect. Erik had sat back down again and closed his eyes as he listened, the image was greatly complimentary. He almost looked…enraptured.

When it was done, he looked up to her and almost inaudibly whispered, “Glorious. Thank you.”

Wringing her hands in her skirt, she suddenly felt incredible exposed. He was looking at her with those eyes and she did not know what to do, he was pinning her in place. There was a great fire burning in their yellow depths, threatening to consume her. Despite the size of the great room, the suffocating, pulsating power of his presence was overwhelming. The melody of his earlier violin composition was still ringing in her ears from earlier and now, with that expression in his eyes, he was reminding her of those sublime feelings. “What other exhibits are there?” She asked with timidity. 

He rose from the platform and went to tenderly place the violin back into the velvet interior of its case. The sharp snapping of the clasps punctuated the end of the magnificent spell they were both under. 

“Come.” He gestured she follow. 

They began to explore the other exhibits of the museum. Christine was enthralled with a small room full of various minerals and gems. Rocks in every color imaginable, some looking more like magic talismans than something that could be pulled from the earth.

“What a beautiful sapphire!” She breathed and she observed the priceless, enormous, well-faceted stone under glass. 

Erik tapped on the glass and casually said, “I have one that is larger. I will show it to you someday. Perhaps I will even tell you the story of how I procured it, although, it may offend your law-abiding nature.” He winked at her.

Unsure if he was teasing her, she chose to ignore him. 

As they made their way through a room featuring land mammals, Christine took in a breath at a large taxidermy Tiger. “It looks like it’s going to leap at me!” She said delightedly. “Imagine if housecats were as big!” 

“I have seen a Caspian Tiger in Persia, magnificent animals; they are even bigger than that Tiger there. Possibly the largest cat that exists.” He replied with a slight distance to his voice.

“You have been to Persia?” She asked with genuine interest.

“Ah, question number two.” He said. “Yes, I lived in Persia for a number of years. It is where I met the good Daroga.”

“Daroga?” Her brows furrowed, had he mentioned that person before? 

“Nadir. Daroga was his title there, chief of police.” He clarified.

“Oh, that must have been such a beautiful country. I imagine the culture must be very different and fascinating.” She gazed back at the Tiger.

“Yes. A beautiful country perhaps, but my experiences there were not.”

“Why not?” She asked, certain she had just forfeited her last question.

He looked at her, a coldness in his gaze. “I will not answer that question at this time, mon petite canari. Perhaps I will tell you another day.” His tone solidified the finality of the subject. She knew if she wanted to get answers about his time in Persia, she would have to wait for another day. 

They were walking through a room full of beautiful, stuffed birds when she began to yawn. Her hand flew up to her mouth in an attempt to hide it. Over the past hour he had been telling her the most wonderful facts about the creatures on display and she was sorry the night was nearing its end. Too keen were his senses, for he knew immediately that her midnight oil was burned. 

“We must return you home, my dear.” He placed a light hand on her back and began to guide her out of the room. “I have kept you too long, I often forget that others need more sleep than I.” 

Without thinking she blurted out, “Erik, what is your last name?”

He froze, she clearly hit a nerve. “There it is. Question number three.” He said without emotion. “I do not have one.” 

“How is that possible?” She asked, fully aware she had now run out of questions. 

“I am certain that I theoretically have one, Christine.” His tone grew icy. “My mother never told me what it was.”

“But…”She began, suddenly she was hurting inside. Surely a mother would give their child a family name, it was only natural.

He sighed. “Christine, my mother hated me since birth, for reasons I should think quite obvious. Now, that is all I wish to say on the matter. Please.” She did not miss the slight catch in his perfect voice when he said that last word. 

Christine silently nodded as he led her out of the museum and towards his shiny black automobile. 

The drive back to her apartment was saturated in silence, save for the loud roar coming from the engine of the Phantom. She glanced over to see Erik’s jaw firmly set, thin mouth set into a straight line. Whatever was hidden under that sleek white mask that hid nearly the entirety of his face had caused this brilliant man to grow up without the love of a mother, had caused him to walk through this world without a familial connection. The revelation was nearly too much to bear. Could his face truly be so terrible that a mother would shun her child? Until now it had never occurred to her to try to imagine what it looked like beneath that white covering. His eyes were so expressive be could give away his feelings more completely than his face probably could. 

She had gleaned quite a bit of information tonight, but it only seemed to open a Pandora’s box of more questions. Erik was a never-ending bag of secrets. Did she truly wish to see him again? She knew her decision this evening would have indelible consequences, this was not the sort of man to be carelessly toyed with. He was built of pure passion and repressed pain; it had seeped into their conversations all evening.

They stood outside the front entry of her apartment building. Christine thought, perhaps she didn’t have to make a decision. Perhaps they could leave it to fate to decide, but just as the thought came into her head, she berated her cowardice. You’re sounding like Raoul with these talks of fate. She said to herself.

They stood there together, the tension palpable between them, until finally he asked. “May I…” His voice trailed off and he seemed to choke “May I…kiss your hand?”

He said it like a child who was certain he would be scornfully reprimanded. The sincerity of his request completely shook her. Nodding she held out her dainty, pale hand, not missing the very bewildered expression in his eyes. 

Erik cradled her hand, ever so gently, within the palm of his own. Very slowly, he raised the small fingers to his lips and gave them the faintest, fluttering of a kiss. She felt the warm breath coming from the holes in the nose of his mask. He continued to hold her hand and brought it to his chest, closing his eyes in pleasure. “Oh, Christine…” He breathed; she was certain he sounded like he may cry. “Thank you.” 

She nodded, unsure how to respond to such intensity at a simple kiss of the hand. Another very terrible thought occurred to her and she pressed it back. Although his behavior was stating otherwise, surely the man had kissed a hand before…

Then he asked the question she knew was coming all evening. “May I see you again?”

Despite all of her questions, all of her doubts, her fears, the answer came so very easily. Again, she was at the top of that rollercoaster, her hands gripping the bar, but she was lifting them up and throwing them into the air.

“Yes.”


	17. The Cadaver

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Graphic description of death...fair warning.

Chapter Seventeen: The Cadaver 

She had looked so lovely, wearing that purple silk scarf around her neck. He had insisted she keep it after its use as a temporary blindfold, feigning nonchalance as though he had not hand selected it just for her. The color of the silk brought out the deeper hues in her cornflower eyes, brought out the rosy color in her cheeks as she blushed. The trilling bell of her delicate laughter had lingered with him since, he had made her laugh with his tricks, he had done that. Erik had brought tears of joy to her eyes.

He had told her things through song he ought to keep buried but after he had made her cheeks bloom crimson, had made her smile like some heavenly radiant being, he simply could not restrain himself. The music had bled from his fingertips, evoked by visions of the two of them dancing together while the rest of the world fell around them and the stars fell, streaming like ribbons of light from the sky. If he closed his eyes, he could still feel the soft skin of her hand pressed to his lips…

Some terrible droning racket broke him from his secret reverie. When he opened his eyes, he saw the source of the annoying sound.

“Erik, have you heard what I said?” Nadir folded his arms over his chest, a very concerned expression on his face.

Erik looked down at the stack of papers in front of him. Police reports, notes from their runners and legal protections, a few customs paper forgeries for import purposes. This meeting with Nadir was designed to sort through all of their operation’s paper documents to assess whether anything seemed out of place. Someone was killing members of their enterprise and they were scrambling to find anything that could be a lead. They had thought their entire operative had been fully covert, until the killings began. So far, there had been murders by the Opera house and by The Gilded Cage, leading them to speculate that whoever was leading these strikes had some sort of personal vendetta against Erik.

Enemies were a dime a dozen for Erik, he had his fair share of them all throughout the world. America was a different story, however. When he had agreed to come to America with Nadir, it was with a vow to function differently. It was his opportunity to turn a new leaf and lead a new life, Nadir insisted that Erik owed him this after playing the hero and saving the masked man’s life in Persia. Erik’s life, in a sense, now belonged to the damned martyr.

“Erik, I’m going to ask you a very serious question.” Nadir’s expression was somber.

“What is it?” Erik snapped; his beautiful visions of Christine had been shooed away by Nadir’s obnoxious chatter. 

“Are you using again?” Nadir’s brows furrowed.

Erik scoffed. “Absolutely not. Why on earth would you assume such a thing?”

“You’ve been whistling.” Nadir told him. “You’ve been staring at those papers, with some far-away look for the past fifteen minutes, whistling.”

Erik leaned back in his chair; this was news to him. “Oh? And if I was?”

“Erik, the last time I whistled in your presence you threatened to decapitate me.” Nadir frowned with suspicion in his eyes. “You despise whistling.”

“Perhaps I have simply changed my views on the ridiculous pastime.” Erik shrugged.

Nadir narrowed his eyes. “You swear it? You have not touched that poison since we left Paris?” 

“I assure you; I have no need for that.” Erik insisted, but grew quiet as he thought of the words to say to assure his partner. If he did not dash this inane suspicion now, he would never hear the end of it. Nadir could see Erik was thinking and remained silent, opting to pick up his teacup and take a sip of the rapidly chilling beverage, pulling a face as he did so. The moment was palpable, until Erik finally muttered. “I believe I am seeing a woman.”

Nadir’s concerned expression evolved to one of supreme shock. “You believe you are seeing a woman?” Nadir rose one dark eyebrow in a speculative gesture. 

Erik straightened in his chair and looked back down at his papers, shuffling them mindlessly, retorting sharply, “That is what I said, did I not?”

Nadir eyes narrowed further; Erik thought the man’s suspicious expression made him look like some silly caricature, he wanted to slap that look off his face. “Does she know she is seeing you?” Nadir asked.

“Of course, she does!” Erik barked. “What sort of absurd question is that? What do you suppose I am doing, watching her through mirrors and windows and imagining the whole thing in my head?”

Nadir sighed, holding up his hands in a placating gesture, as though trying to calm an angry cat. “That is not what I am insinuating. I merely wish to ensure my friend is not getting himself into a position for which he may be harmed.”

Erik let out a short, derisive snort. “Your concern for me is touching, Daroga.” Then his lips drew into a tight line, his voice took on a slight growl as he said, “This matter is none of your concern.” His attention returned to his papers, as though he were continuing to read some trivial article in the sports section. “Getting back to the task at hand, have you been able to locate Regina’s whereabouts?” 

The former employee had suddenly quit her position without word, neglecting to show up to her shift the night before Keenan’s murder. It had been originally assumed that she had quit without notice. Had Arthur not told Nadir about the nature of Regina and Keenan’s relationship, they may have simply assumed she was a delinquent employee. Erik was slightly perturbed he had not caught on to the signs first. Christine had managed to claim a monopoly on his attention as of late. Foolishly, he allowed himself to become oblivious to the happenings in his own establishment, a gross oversight he would correct.

With Regina’s newly identified connection to the murdered muscle, the timing of her disappearance was far too suspicious. Had Keenan known there was to be an attack at The Gilded Cage and warned Regina in an effort to protect her? Was she in on the plot all along? Or perhaps she been murdered, but if so, why was there no word of it from any of their ears around the city? There were far too many possibilities, too many variables to consider. 

“I believe I may have determined her residence.” Nadir reached into his pocket and withdrew his small leather notebook. 

“I will check it out, Daroga. You have never been known for your skills in stealth.” He reached out an open hand to accept the notebook.

The Persian rolled his eyes at the obvious insult and handed his constant companion to the masked man. “Spoken like a man who revels in his abilities to violate the privacy and security of others. You excel at sneaking about.”

Erik smirked, flipping through the notebook to obtain the address. He clucked his tongue. “My good Daroga, if I lacked such skills would our enterprise run as well as it does? Do not tell me you are beginning to regret living in that wonderful penthouse of yours, after all, I am not the only one who benefits from my ‘sneaking about.”

Nadir did not respond.

It was true. Their business had been exceptionally lucrative. Nadir had originally objected to Erik’s pitch for becoming smugglers, breaking American law did not appeal to him, regardless of how ludicrous the law may be. Erik began the whole scheme without him and Nadir, being the self-appointed and completely unnecessary conscience of Erik, had finally relented and joined the fray.

In the beginning, Erik was carrying out all of the import and export single handedly. His ingenious methods of smuggling had managed to completely fly under the nose of American customs officials. Early on it had been discovered that people had a soft spot when it came to what was perceived as culturally important artworks destined for museums. Statues worked well for the purposes of importing high end European liquors. Bronze statues were hollow, allowing couple or more dozen bottles to fit neatly inside, but were also heavy enough to avoid being shaken about. Erik had become quite skilled with the art of recreating bronze statues that looked as though they hailed from ancient Greece, weathering and oxidizing them the give a credible green patina. The statues would enter the states under the guise they were heading for a museum. Once in The States, they would be opened, their contraband removed and resealed. The statues were then easily sold at auctions to procure extra money, being pawned off as authentic to unsuspecting rich who longed for a bit of art in their upstate New York gardens.

The statues were the startup, once they had that bit of steady income, the two men decided to purchase their own boat. To avoid suspicion they chose a passenger ship. Nadir suggested they stop the liquor smuggling all together and focus on making an honest living by transporting travelers to and from Europe, but Erik found the idea boring and tedious. It must have surely become apparent to Nadir in those days that Erik was not in it solely for the money obtained, but for the thrill. He delighted in pulling the wool over the eyes of others, enjoyed nothing more than proving his superiority over the rest of the so-called ‘human race’. Erik had told Nadir to manage the passenger transportation business while he handled the smuggling side of things. Their passenger ship had been refitted for the dual purpose of smuggling and carrying passengers and it had been operating without incident for years now.

It had taken them over half a decade to get the sizable operation that they now had up and running. Their network consisted of dozens of runners, scouts and bribed officials. Erik had created a large system of tunnels under The Gilded Cage, but they were not his only tunnel systems. He had little networks running all throughout the city, some which utilized preexisting sewer lines that were no longer in use, some of his pathways even utilized subway tunnels. His favorite tunnel ran along the river and connected to a hidden vault underground within the base of Brooklyn Bridge. It was here that they kept the majority of their smuggled wares, easily accessible due to the proximity to the East River. He had been particularly proud of that tunnel’s construction, which he had been required to complete himself covertly while some repairs were being completed on a neighboring subway system. Only he and Nadir knew of the Bridge Vault.

All these efforts would eventually be unnecessary, sooner or later Prohibition would fizzle out and die, rightfully burning in a ditch like the misguided law that it is. Erik had larger plans, bigger aspirations, things for which he had already begun to set the gears in motion. Nadir was oblivious to his other venture, would most likely disapprove, but no matter, all would work out and Nadir would eventually laugh the whole thing off as another one of Erik’s quirks. If all worked out, Nadir would never have to concern himself with breaking the law ever again.

Their scouring of police reports and old legers was getting them absolutely nowhere, the exercise felt entirely moot. Glancing at his pocket watch, Erik noted the time. It was now dark enough to venture out to the address he had scribbled down onto a slip of notepaper. Bidding Nadir a somewhat blunt farewell, he left the confines of the office at the Gilded Cage and began his trip through the city via tunnels and streets. Not all destinations could be reached using underground methods. New York was a bustling city which made it somewhat difficult to lurk about above ground unnoticed, thus he wore an absurd mask painted in an effort to pass as a ‘normal’ face in the dark of the evening. He hated the thing for the sham that it was, but it was necessary for ventures such as this.

The building was located in the East Village, the apartments were propped on the upper stories above a market and a fruit stand. Erik ducked his head and pulled down the brim of his hat as he walked past the fruit seller who was busied with the task of closing down the stand for the night. The front door of the building was a simple lock to pick, requiring very little effort or skill. To his relief, the building’s hallways lay silent and vacant, making his ascent to the fourth story walk up an uninterrupted and unnoticed feat. 

Pulling out the thin metal tool required to open the apartment door, Erik considered the possibility of Regina being inside. It was very possible he may have to incapacitate her, not exactly ideal, but he could not have the fiery brunette woman screaming bloody murder and alerting half the city block of his presence. The hour had grown late, it was more likely she was slumbering by now. 

The lock clicked as he turned the worn metal knob of the apartment door. As he stood in the narrow entryway of the residence, closing the door gently behind him, he was immediately struck with an all-too-familiar smell. It brought in its wake a flood of violent and hideous memories he desired to keep repressed. Having lived the dark abattoir he called a life, he could not mistake the thick, metallic smell of blood and the sharp, pungent odor of human waste, the smell of death. Regina was dead inside this apartment. He knew before he even set his eyes on her. 

It was in a neighboring room, the bedroom, where he found her. She was laying on her back upon a rug discolored from bodily fluids, her eyes staring large and dull up at the ceiling. She was half dressed, as though she had been interrupted while changing. Her hands were severely lacerated with defensive wounds, her body had been stabbed repeatedly and left to bleed out onto the light-colored rug where it mixed with the urine and feces her body evacuated post-death. Squatting down he inspected her face, the carved three letter word upon her forehead, crudely etched into her skin to serve as a message to whoever had found her. This was not a new death, she had likely been murdered the day before Keenan. The body would have remained here for longer than two days, presumably until the smell alerted unsuspecting neighbors, had Erik not found her.

Looking at the dead woman, his mind crafted the image of Christine’s corpse upon that rug lying in her own blood and filth. He chased the thought away. She was his, whether she knew it or not, she belonged to him now and he would kill a thousand men in the worst of ways to ensure no one laid a single finger on her. 

He rose and began to search the apartment for anything of use, any information, some small clue that could tell him more. Looking in drawers, books, closets…her apartment was somewhat bare. It occurred to him that this apartment was not well-lived in. Regina lacked the frivolities women tended to enjoy. The residence lacked decorations, the walls were blank, the shelves held no tchotchkes, no knick-knacks one would slowly collect with time. 

The apartment was not offering anything of use, and he was growing frustrated. He got down onto his belly to look under the dresser and that was were he found it. A small nook in the wood under the heavy piece of wood furniture held a very slim journal. Reaching under, he withdrew it and flipped it open. There were dates and times, some scribbled names of locations, his name was mentioned next to a few of the dates. His heart picked up its pace when he saw Christine’s name next to the words, ‘new at cage’.  
The other word that caught his attention was written next to dates he had become quite familiar with, the dates corresponded with the murders of runners and paid officials associated with his operation. That word, the same word which had been hacked into the face of the cadaver lying only feet from him.

‘Boo.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *This was a super fun chapter to research for. I fell down a delicious rabbit hole reading articles and scouring old photos of prohibition era tunnels, smuggling methods, old sewer and subway tunnel maps, the history of the Brooklyn Bridge. It is my goal to make this world as believable as possible and I have to say, after doing my research, there really were some outlandish ways of smuggling liquor into the country. The Greek statue idea in an original from yours truly, it just seems exciting and cinematic. But they used all kinds of things to smuggle booze into the country and around the cities. The methods were pretty ingenuous. 
> 
> *New York City is a city that was built in layers, there are three sewer systems and tunnels stacked on top of each other. There are numerous tunnels that are unused, abandoned or forgotten. This would have been Erik's playground. 
> 
> *There really were secret vaults in the Brooklyn bridge! They believe they were used as a private wine cellar. 
> 
> Thank you for all my reviewers! Thank you to all my lurkers as well!


	18. The Bench

** Chapter Eighteen: The Bench **

****

Corpses had lost their ability to affect him. The floors of his past were covered in layer upon layer of gore, his hands bloody from his long service to Death, his soul tainted with the stench of carrion. He had been a faithful and devoted servant to the that dark master, sending countless men down to their fates, holding the power of life and death in his skeletal grip as though it was his right. When he saw Regina lying there in rigor mortis, he felt nothing inside, but when he saw Christine’s name written upon the page of that book he felt the icy grip of some foreign emotion.

His imagination was betraying him with images of Christine’s blue eyes, dull and clouded, staring back at him with their lights snuffed out. Cruel images of her skin growing grey, her lips blue-hued and parted, attracting flies to lay their eggs. The horror would not leave his traitorous head, that frigid grip on his heart would not let up. Making his way through the dark streets of the city, he found himself unconsciously making a pilgrimage to her apartment. He needed to see her, if for but a moment, needed to see her warm and breathing.

Standing below her third level apartment window, he glanced at his watch. It was only slightly past the tenth hour. Antoinette and Meg would still be occupied at the Opera, the running of Petrushka was spanning two weeks, leaving Christine in an empty apartment. He briefly considered how Christine would feel if she knew he had been inside her home. What would she do if she knew, the night of Keenan’s death, while all the women lay sleeping in their beds, he had trespassed into their home to retrieve her shoe size? He had stood over her that night, watching her as she lay sleeping, utterly ignorant to his presence.

August had just arrived continuing the trend of summer heat, requiring her bedroom window to be propped ajar. Taking a gamble that she would be in her bed, he threw his voice far up to the windowsill. “Awake!” He crooned. “Awake, my girl!”

To the occasional passerby, he appeared as merely a man standing on the sidewalk, they were oblivious to the words he threw into her room from below. Light appeared in her window, her silhouette casting its glorious shape through the white lace curtain. Drawing the curtain aside, he saw the shape of her looking down in his direction, his cue to go to her door.

The lock on her building’s door was broken. He would need to fix that; he could not have his little canary in such unsecure lodgings. Quickly ascending her stairs, he soon found himself standing before the glossy, red front door of her apartment, shining like a beacon on a bleak night. Does she know there is a broken devil standing outside her door? Would she welcome him past her threshold if she knew the wicked deeds of his past? Would she feel safe if she knew he had, for a time, delighted in dealing death nearly as much as he delighted in song? What if he could ever fully possess her, this beautiful creature who had slowly embroidered herself into his heart? Was she the punishment for all of his former sins? He refused to consider the possibilities, rapping his knuckles upon the solid wood of the door.

The pattering of her small feet was heard through the door, the sound of the bolt sliding free. She opened the door a crack and looked out at him with those big, cornflower eyes. He saw her take him in, a quizzical expression on her face, and he remembered he was wearing that god-awful excuse for a mask.

“I nearly did not recognize you. I was afraid were one of those men…Your mask…it’s different.” She said through the door.

“I understand the aversion, but it makes nighttime excursions easier.”

“What are you doing here?” She quietly asked.

He did not answer her, did not wish to appear weak from his longing to see her. _I have just seen the repugnance of death, and I required your beauty._ “I want to take you someplace; it is close by. I believe you will enjoy it.”

She hesitated, before opening the door. Oh, she was a vision in white, her nightdress a simple thing of cotton and lace. Looking down at her attire, she gestured to what she was wearing and said, “Excuse me while I put something else on.”

He entered the apartment and waited as she disappeared to change. He tried in vain to keep himself from imagining what she looks like as she removed that nightdress only a few doors down the hall…

When she emerged, she was dressed in a dress that was beginning to show the evidence of wear. He longed to adorn her with only the finest of clothing, to dress her in regal fabrics, encrust her in the jewels of royalty, to keep her like a lovely songbird in a golden cage, admired for all eternity. She ought to be dripping in silk and beads and lace, not cotton that had seen a few washes too many.

“Where are we going?” She asked, the small hint of concern in her voice.

He tutted her. “Another surprise.”

Grace Church was only blocks away, a beautiful Gothic building completed in the middle of the 19th century. While not as flashy or impressive as some of the cathedrals of Europe, it had a steeple within the tower which offered a magnificent view of Manhattan and it was remarkably easy to break into. Christine would unfortunately become an accomplice to trespassing this evening, but he was certain this would be worth it.

Clever girl must have caught on, because she took on an irritated tone when she demanded, “Are you truly picking that lock?”

He hummed dismissively and said, “I cannot possibly be a donor to every building in Manhattan, yet if I were, I most certainly would never give to a church! Indulge me this once, yes?”

She let out a huff but relented. “Very well. If we are arrested, I am never speaking to you again.” He knew she was not serious; her voice was lacking that rigidity it took on when she was truly upset. The corners of her lips momentarily tilted upward in an unconscious smile. No, she was actually quite intrigued with this thrill of breaking and entering, he ought to capitalize on this revelation in the future…

The stairs up were long and winding, they scaled quite a few stories, but she managed to keep up with his strides. As they climbed, he asked her about her life in Paris and she obliged, her speech coming easy despite the exertion from the climb, filled with a comfortable ease as though speaking with an old friend. She told him of her father’s skills with the violin and the joys of singing with him, of their travels together. As they neared their destination, she brought up the subject of the Palais Garnier.

“That’s where I met the Giry’s, but I’m sure you know that.” She said, her breathing coming fast from the exercise.

“I did not. Although, it serves as a wonderful coincidence, for it is more than likely you and I were under that same roof at one point.” He said distantly.

“Oh? You were a patron of the Palais Garnier as well?”

“Something like that.” He replied dismissively. They had reached a set of large stain-glass windows. He gripped the large latch and twisted it open. Her gasp echoed through the interior of the steeple; he knew she would be pleased. The view from this tower was spectacular, affording a full view of a good portion of the city. While not as tall as some of the larger buildings in the city, it was still enough to get a lovely bird’s eye view of the busy world below. This window exited to a very small balcony with a cement bench, a cozy little space big enough for two. He had stumbled upon this little nook a few years ago during a long bout of restless insomnia, he was exploring the interiors of many of the buildings in the city with architectural interest. This particular ledge had become a favorite.

He felt smug sharing this gem with her. “Is it worth a bit of delinquency?”

“This would make a wonderful reading place.” She sat upon the bench and gazed out over the blinking lights of the city. He joined her on the cool seat of the bench. “It’s so beautiful.”

“It is.” He said, his gold eyes glowing slight in the dark were riveted to her face. She must have sensed it for she turned her attention to him.

Her slender fingers reached up and brushed the matte surface of the cheek of the false face. His hand captured her wrist, holding it like a delicate bird with brittle bones that could snap under too much pressure, he pulled the prodding hand away, lest she get too bold. “I do not like this mask. It looks wrong. It isn’t you.”

“It is an improvement to what lies beneath.” He stated coldly.

“Will you ever show me?” Her fingers began to worry her skirt, she was aware of how touchy this topic was, her anxiety was radiating from her. “Erik, I wish to know you. If I am to trust you, you must trust me.”

He sighed “I suppose it is inevitable, your curiosity will only grow...but not tonight. We are too high up and I cannot have you falling to your death out of fear. It would spoil our lovely evening.”

She scoffed and folded her arms over her chest, clearly insulted by his insinuation of her weak constitution. If only she knew grown men had screamed at the mere sight of his death’s visage. He could induce madness and vomiting in levelheaded adults by simply showing his face. “That sounds overly dramatic, no face can possibly be that bad.”

He stared back at her. “I find this subject distasteful; I would much rather talk about you.”

“Very well, but only if you give me three more questions.”

He tutted. “My, my, we have a little negotiator here, do we?”

“Yes, and I am quite firm on this. I refuse to utter a single word until you agree to let me know more about you. I will refuse to see you again, Erik, I swear it.” Her posture was stiff, she was indeed serious. Internally he chuckled, for she had forfeited her singular opportunity to be rid of him that night at the museum. She was tied to him now, surely, she knew this by now.

“Three more questions granted, mon petite canari.”

“Why do you call me that?”

“Your first question wasted on a simple pet name?” He smirked “Is not a canary a woman who sings?” That was not entirely truthful, while it was indeed the slang term for a singer, it was not the inspiration for endearment. Changing the subject, he asked, “I know of your father’s somewhat recent passing. What of your mother? You have no stories of her.”

“She passed when I was born, I have no memories of her. And my memories of my father fade a little more each year...I try to hold onto them, they are all I have left of my family.” She looked at him, brows furrowed. “Do you have any family left, Erik?”

“I never had one to begin with.”

She abruptly looked away, pity in her eyes, he hated it. Even the most beautiful face on the planet could be reduced to an obscenity with an expression of pity. She turned back and embraced him, wrapping him gently in her willowy arms. He stiffened. This development was quite sudden, he was unsure how to respond, but he was not opposed it.

“Where do you live, Erik?” She quietly asked into his jacket, he could feel her breathing him in, this did not feel like pity anymore. It felt like something entirely different, something he had never before experienced. Was her reaction a pleasant side-effect of his brief vulnerability, of his momentary willingness to open himself to her? The sensation of her so close left him somewhat breathless, his heart performing a spectacular dance within his chest.

He hummed, without thinking he reached a hand up and imbedded his long fingers into the base of her hair, touching down to her warm scalp. He felt her relax, sinking further into him. “I will show you. Tomorrow, yes? Will you join me for dinner, perhaps a show? Have you seen your friend dance?”

She looked up at him, still holding him in her arms, was this what having a lover felt like? “You want to take me to dinner and the opera?” Those brilliant blue eyes were far too captivating.

“No, I want to prepare you dinner, then take you to the opera. You may see my home then.”

“Yes.” She whispered.

“Good.” He purred. “I will retrieve you tomorrow.”

She nodded and put her head back into his jacket, he continued to massage her scalp. They sat there for a long while in silence, the sounds of the city below mingling with the light shining down from the stars. He became aware that she had fallen asleep, her arms falling limply to her sides, her body only remaining upright by his solid form.

He leaned over and kissed the top of her head, relishing it, inhaling the fragrance of her. She never had to know of such a trespass, never needed to know the broken devil took what had not been freely given.

Staying up there with her sleeping form all night would have been easy for him, but after a couple of hours in her presence he reluctantly scooped her into his arms. He carried her the few blocks to her home, her weight hardly a burden for him. As he lay her down into her own bed, her eyes fluttered open, her sigh escaped her lips like a song.

“I still don’t understand what I feel for you.” She said, her delicate voice thick with sleep.

He stroked her cheek with brutal tenderness. “You will.” He replied in a sonorous voice, then forcing himself to leave her side, left her to dream.

An entire lifetime he had spent feeling like an outsider looking in, love was an ephemeral thing he had come to accept would never belong to him. One could not steal love the way one would steal a purse or a jewel, it was something that had to be given and he had never been the recipient of such treasure. He had hardened his heart to spare him the pain. In the past he had felt infatuation, yes, but those feelings lasted but a brief season. What he felt for Christine was not infatuation, but it was violent in its intensity, it even frightened him at times.

Why her? Why now? From that first moment she drew that pathetic little knife on him, he knew she had bewitched him in some way, for not since that moment had he spent a single hour without thinking of her. She had chipped at the armor of his prickly heart and wormed her way inside. She spoke to him like he was but a man, not some ‘thing’ living on the fringes of society. His mind had become a battlefield, with fighting between the side that told him he did not deserve her and the side that said she was made for him.

It was maddening to desire something as desperately as he desired her yet feel so utterly unworthy, even more maddening to believe she may be feeling that desire in return.

Erik was not sure if he was irritated or relieved to see Nadir still busy in the office when he returned to The Gilded Cage, but when he entered the door the Persian had a solemn look on his face.

“Is everything alright? You’ve been gone a long time.” Nadir’s jade eyes seemed to shine bright with the amber illumination of the desk lamp.

“I needed to ensure Christine was unharmed. Regina is dead, they carved a message into her forehead.” He reached inside his jacket pocket and retrieved the journal. Sitting down in the chair opposite Nadir, he removed the mask he so despised and tossed it onto the desk. Nadir, despite the numerous times he had been exposed to Erik’s face, subtly flinched at the sight.

“Christine?” Nadir set down his pen, his face lighting up. “Ah, she’s the woman you are seeing. I suspected, but I was not entirely sure.”

Erik let out a breath and looked at the ceiling. He folded his arms over his chest in a defensive gesture. “Well? Are you going to lecture me or discourage me from such a pursuit?”

Nadir leaned back in his chair. “Not in the slightest. Just don’t be an idiot. Despite your glaring genius you can be quite daft at times. Don’t sabotage this good thing you have.” 

Erik glared at Nadir. “Let us discuss the real problem at hand here.” He opened the notebook he had retrieved and flipped to the first page. “This was hidden in Regina’s apartment, there are dates which correspond to the deaths of our runners and paid officials, there are other dates, however that need to be looked up. They all have the word ‘Boo’ written next to them, as did Regina’s forehead.” Nadir’s face grew pale at that last bit of news. “I want to get in touch with our contacts and check these dates with other murders in the area we may not be familiar with.” He paused. “I have a hunch, but I won’t be sure until I see the reports. I’m beginning to think this attack isn’t personal after all.”

Nadir nodded and began to straighten up his papers; the two men were going to have a very long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I'm torn between really loving and really hating this chapter. There were a lot of emotions I wanted to get across while also addressing the mystery of the murders. 
> 
> Whether you love it or hate it, let me know! It helps me as grow as a writer to understand what works and what doesn't. The comments really help, plus they are very encouraging! :)
> 
> Stay safe everyone!


	19. Bethesda Terrace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Sex and death are prominent themes in this chapter.
> 
> The 1920's were a particularly sexually liberating time for women, particularly in flapper culture and in the night scene of NYC. Christine is not a flapper, but she is certainly exposed to the culture. I wanted to explore this sexual awakening with her character. 
> 
> Also, this chapter is bananas. It's sort of meant to be a rollercoaster, so buckle up?
> 
> Let me know what works and what does not.

_Chapter Nineteen: Bethesda Terrace_

_The clinking of champagne glasses, the hearty laughter of men and women, the brilliant lights of a magnificent chandelier filled the enormous, elegant room. The party was in full swing, the music playing from a large phonograph in the corner, a song she could not quite place. Everything seemed just slightly off, the lights a little too bright, the colors a bit too muted. She did not recall receiving an invitation to this party, what would she even wear to such an illustrious occasion such as this?_  
_She saw him then, the man she had been anticipating all evening. He was staring at her from across the room with a magnificent predatory stare that made her quiver with some unnamed delight. This was why she attended this party; she was here to see him. There was something secretive about the way they had to meet here._  
_He casually left the group of individuals with whom he had been moved to exit the room full of music merriment. Follow him, that is what she was supposed to do. She could not remember why she needed to follow, but she was compelled to, but she felt desperate to do so. As she made her way down a long corridor, past grand oil paintings of people she did not know, their faces blurred and smudged, she tried to recall where she was. This party had happened before, somewhere in another time, she was certain of it._  
_A door was open before her, a library. How odd, she was unable to smell the customary fragrance of books and paper in here, the distinctive musk of old leather covers. The man was leaning back on the desk, commanding her to lock to door behind her. He looked like Erik, but this couldn’t be his house, why would he have so many people here? Did he not explicitly imply his distaste for people?_  
_“Come here.” He commanded and she obliged. This meeting had been planned, she just knew, somehow, they had arranged it beforehand. This was why she had attended this festive event; the party was a distraction; they were here hiding something. They had to keep this encounter a secret, she just could not remember why._  
_Her small hands were at the clasp of his trousers, skillfully unbuttoning the closure. Her heart was racing in her chest, and she looked into his eyes._  
_“Yes, I require it. Give me that which I crave.” He rasped, his voice heavenly with desire, his eyes burned into hers. She had heard that line before…where was it from?_  
_She looked down and tried to see the shape of him, but she could not make out the details. His strong hand gripped her shoulders and pushed her down onto her knees. She was before him now, like a devoted worshipper, prepared to give him this pleasurable service with her hand and mouth. There was a wonderful burning need forming between her legs and she found her hand reaching there to ease it. He was moaning, creating such gorgeous sounds as she used her mouth to express her love, her need growing and growing as his groans increased in intensity._

Christine awoke, panting heavily with her hand inside the waistband of her drawers. She was aching and damp where her hand was now located. That party, it was from Arthur’s book. Somehow her mind had placed her in that scene, meeting the wealthy aristocrat in secret to perform delicious sexual acts on one another. She lamented waking up…

Glancing at the clock on her side table, she noticed she had slept far too late; it was nearly noon. Arthur was meeting her for a picnic lunch in Washington Square park in only two hours, and here she was sleeping in, having erotic dreams of mysterious men at parties.

Washington Square park was acres of public space situated in the middle of Greenwich Village. It featured a prominent arch that reminded Christine of a smaller version of the Arc De Triumph in Paris. A large fountain sat proudly in the very center of the park, tempting the occasional overheated child into it’s refreshing waters to cool down. Two little boys were splashing about in the fountain as Christine found Arthur beneath a tree in a shadier section of the park.

A blanket had been spread out with a light lunch of bread, fruit and cheese tucked in an open basket. Christine had brought a few bottles of Coca-Cola and a package of sweets for the occasion.

The two embraced before sitting upon the blanket.

“I have missed you these past days.” Christine fanned herself with her hand. “Being without work has been hard but being without my friend has been unbearable. How have you been fairing?”

He shrugged nonchalantly. “I’ve done some more writing, visited with my friend a bit...things are still complicated there.” He accepted a bottle of pop, removing a bottle opener from his pocket, he opened the bottle and took a sip. “I suppose time has gone by with relative ease. It certainly is good to come here in the sunshine, surrounded by all this life and spend a few hours in your delightful company.”

She nodded. “I love this park. Meg and I often come here for walks, in the evenings there is usually an old man who feeds the pigeons over in that corner”

“Did you know it was originally a potter’s field? They buried the poor and diseased here until the beginning of the 19th century. We’re sitting above a few thousand dead bodies.”

“That’s quite morbid.” She looked down as though she would suddenly see the faces of the corpses staring back at her, with wide open mouths, through the grass.

“I’ve always been intrigued by how death and beauty go hand in hand. Perhaps it’s the poet in me. They took this place of decay and turned it into this gorgeous public square. Remarkable really.”

“Perhaps you should stop writing about sex and write about death instead.” Her voice dropped and she glanced around to see if anyone was nearby. “Speaking of your books...I’ve a question for you.”

“Oh?” Arthur eyes lit with mischievous curiosity. “Color me intrigued.”

“In chapter five of The Peculiar Torment...at the party...in the library.” She started to blush, pursing her lips to keep herself from going into a fit of nervous giggles. “What I mean to say...Do all men enjoy that?”

Arthur laughed. “Yes Christine. All men enjoy that.” He lounged back casually, as though this was a typical conversation to have in the park in the middle of the day and comfortably asked. “Did you have someone in mind?”

She ducked her head, heat blooming in her cheeks, neck and ears.

Arthur continued. “It’s Erik, isn’t it?” He sounded smug, certain, like he had caught her in some sort of lie.

“What makes you think…”

“Singing lessons? Mysterious rendezvous in the all magical stock room?” He winked. “‘Oh Arthur he’s so fascinating’” He said in a high pitched voice “...all fairly damning. But I could really tell something was going on when I saw the way he looked at you that night.”

“And how is that?” She asked

“Like a man who just discovered the sun revolves around a woman and not the sun. His affection is quite obvious, a blind man could see that.”

“Don’t tell Copernicus that.” She blushed again, was she ever going to stop blushing? She was silent for a moment as Arthur chewed thoughtfully on a strawberry. “Arthur, I have another secret to tell you.”

He straightened up, ready for more gossip.

“I do not believe Erik has ever kissed a woman before.” She said lowly, as though afraid Erik could overhear her somehow here in this park.

“You want to perform fellatio on a man who’s never been kissed? Christine, you’ll kill the poor man!” He started laughing heartily, heavily amused by the circumstance.

“Shhh. Keep your voice down!” She started looking around to see if anyone had heard his crass outburst. “Obviously I would kiss him first.” She said indignantly. “I just wanted to know if men enjoyed that sort of thing.”

“Christine, nothing will inform him of your affections more.” He tried to sober but kept giggling at her expense.

“I don’t know why I’m talking to you about this.” She crossed her arms over her chest and tried not to smile, giving him a half-hearted death glare.

“I can’t help it! You are far too endearing with your innocent little questions about sex.” He replied, popping another strawberry into his mouth. He grinned as he swallowed and said, “I bet he’s well endowed.”

Christine slapped his shoulder. “Arthur!” The she dropped her voice, looked up at him through her lashes and coyly asked, “How can you tell?”

“Oh, one just knows, but you can tell by the way he walks. He struts like he owns the place.”

“Technically he does own the place.”

“I mean figuratively, my little minx.” Arthur touched his finger to the tip of her nose in a playful gesture.

“I cannot believe we are discussing this over lunch.” Christine shook her head.

“You have to tell me when you find out Christine. I have to know; this is quite important.” He insisted, almost seriously.

She looked at him, mouth agape. “Absolutely not, you sexual deviant. I will not discuss Erik’s...business to you ever again.”

He gave her a dramatic pout, his bottom lip curling downward. “Fine. It just proves how much you don’t love me.” He teased. He leaned back again and changed the subject, “Have you seen beneath that mask?”

“No.” She replied, “But I would like to think it should not matter.”

“He could be dripping in maggots, with his flesh all exposed…” He grinned like a schoolboy.

“See? With that imagination, you really ought to be writing horror stories about death. I suppose if maggots were involved, I would be seeing flies about.” She waved her hand as thought shooing away his foolishness. “Honestly, Arthur.”

“You’re right, Christine. It shouldn’t matter what a man looks like, however we live in a world that seems to forget that quite often. In many ways I can empathize with him. The need to hide something you shouldn’t be ashamed of simply because society demands it. It is a tragic thing.”

The rest of their lunch continued with no more talk of Erik. Instead, Arthur regaled her with more stories about Washington Square Park’s history until they bid their farewells and went their sperate ways. Christine wasted the remainder of her day window shopping and scurrying around the local library.

When she arrived home to ready for the evening, she was buzzing with anticipation. She made her way to her wardrobe, prepared to grab the only presentable dress she owned, regardless of its plain construction. Opening her wardrobe presented quite a shock.

Hung upon a gilded hanger was a dazzling gown. All gold and black silk chiffon with delicate floral beadwork running down along the top layer of the skirt, the craftsmanship impeccable. The gown was sleeveless, ankle length and had a drop waist with a beaded sash which tied in the front. She was nearly terrified to touch it, for fear she would get it dirty with her peasant hands.

Below were the gold shoes Erik had bought her, they matched the dress perfectly, almost obscenely. She reminded herself that she needed to talk to Erik about his magic tricks when they involved breaking and entering, but for now the dress called to her. It draped on her body like a fabric dream.

She was still fussing with her hair, still self-consciously checking her makeup when she heard the strong rapping on the door. Her stomach began to do somersaults, why was she feeling this?

Opening the door only slightly ajar, he stood there in all his magnificent glory somehow dressed even finer than usual in a black evening suit of wool and silk with embroidered lapels.

As she opened the door fully to present herself to his eager, yellow eyes, she did not miss the way he almost took a step back as he took her in, did not miss the way his pupils seemed to dilate momentarily, his breath being sucked in sharply.

“I suppose I have you to thank for this? How does it look?” She shyly asked.

“Words fail…” He said and held his hand out to her, his shoulders straight and pulled back in a proud posture. He almost seemed to be playing a role, the confidant suitor taking his lady out on the town. That spark was there when she touched her hand to his.

The Phantom was waiting for them when they exited onto the sidewalk, a few pedestrians noticed them as they got into the car. A man whistled in appreciation to Christine and received the look of death from Erik.

She felt fabulous and free dressed to the nines, driving in this fantastically expensive automobile next to this man who had the world for his oyster. Could it always be like this, this levity and freedom she felt in this moment?

They entered the garage in The Gilded Cage building. After closing the door of the garage he opened her door and aided her out of the vehicle. His fingers reached out and slowly brushing down her bare arm, almost of their own volition and she shivered at the sensual implications.

Together they made their way through a long system of dark tunnels and stairways. They were in the labyrinth of his domain now, she felt like Alice going through the looking glass. If she ever attempted to wander through this world, she would get irrevocably lost. Occasionally he would stop and mutter something about a trap before taking her hand and continuing forward. She pushed her questions aside for another time.

“I live unconventionally Christine, but I do hope you enjoy my home.” He said as a door opened, a brilliant amber light pooling around them. He gestured for her to enter and she obliged.

This was his home, With a black marble fireplace, rich Persian rugs and elegant cherry colored furniture. Books were on every wall, a drafting table sat in a corner, a grand piano in the other adorned with handwritten compositions, and an elegant glasswork case with several instruments. Looking up at the chandelier her hand flew to her mouth, it reminded her of the dream she had last night, the one in Arthur’s story.

“Do you like it?” He asked, noticing her admiration of the lighting fixture. “I constructed it not long ago. I think it reminds me of you...crystalline and bright.”

“You built that?” She gasped.

“Indeed, I built my home as well, I prefer it that way.”

She was going to catch flies with her mouth open the way it was. He was beyond remarkable. “You never cease to impress. What other things do you do, Mr. Magician?”

“I dabble in a number of things. Architecture, Music, Science. I have a fondness for books….” He trailed off with a lazy wave of his hand as if speaking about himself was most boring past time known to man.

A short giggle the sound of a bell escaped Christine prompting Erik to ask, “What, pray tell, is so humorous?”

“I’m sorry, you said you ‘dabble’? This-“She waved her arms to indicate the whole of the room “Is not dabbling! How on earth do you do have time for all of this?”

“I sleep less often than most, mon petit canari. And, until now, I have not had something as exquisite as you to bide my time.” He put his hand on her back and said, “I promised to feed you. It is prepared, and waiting. I hope you enjoy Russian cuisine; it happens to be my specialty.”

He guided her into a humble kitchen with a small dining table inside. “Why Russian food?” She sat at the table; she could smell the food being kept warm on the stove. “Did you live in Russia?”

He hummed as he prepared a plate for her, he looked simultaneously in and out of place in the kitchen, it was surreal to see him in such a domestic setting. “Yes, I’ve lived in a number of places.”

“Will you tell me of your time in Russia and Persia?” Her fingers drummed on the table, she felt self-conscious here in his home.

“I will gladly discuss Russia, but not Persia. Dark days, my dear.” He said dismissively. “I prefer to forget those years.” She could feel his walls rising again.

She ate the exotic dish he had presented her; it had a name she could not pronounce but sounded beautiful rolling off his enchanted tongue. Plates were set before the two of them, yet the food never seemed to disappear from his place. He poured her a very tiny glass of a clear liquid from a bottle, she lifted it to her nose and sniffed it.

“Vodka with dinner is quite customary in Russia, Christine.” He stated simply before downing the liquid in one swallow, then refilling it once more and downing a second.

She lifted the drink to her lips and followed suit. It did not burn like the Vodka she had consumed only once before, a dare from some of Meg’s ballet friends in the Palais Garnier which had left her sputtering and gasping for air, this one was actually quite smooth. That telltale warmth began to spread into her chest, a sign the alcohol was doing its work. He did not pour her a second, she would not need it, lightweight that she was.

Christine desired to spend more time within his strange home, wanted to hear him play that grand piano, wanted to listen to his stories and explore his peculiar labyrinth, but they had to make it to the Opera to see Petrushka.

“We will miss the first 15 minutes of the performance, Christine. As you know I hate crowds. Antoinette typically readies the box prior to my arrival. We shall enter through the back, however,” He glanced at her dress. “I truly wish you could be seen by all of Manhattan, there is not another woman who deserves it more than you.”

His flattery was going to destroy her.

As though the evening did not have nearly enough surprises, his box number certainly became one of them. Connections started forming within her mind, all the stories Meg had trilled over breakfast, over coffee. A man with no face in evening wear, indeed. “I have just added two and two together, you’re the patron who had Meg brought over from Paris. You wouldn’t happen to be haunting this building as well, would you?”

He gave that charming, wolfish grin. “Oh, I see you’ve heard of me, have you? Little Meg loves to spread her tales, I daresay it makes my job much easier.” He sat in a seat behind her, tucked away in the shadows of the box.

“Is all of that Opera Ghost nonsense true? Are you truly tormenting these poor performers?”

“Nonsense, I’m only tormenting the managers, and for good reason. They are making a mockery of this theatre.” He held up a hand to silence her protest. “And before you say another word, you ought to know I have a certain female accomplice.”

Christine’s brows furrowed; her lips turned downward. “Are you truly telling me Antoinette Giry has been in cahoots with you this whole time?”

He shrugged. “She’s invaluable to the operation. One day this theatre will be mine, it’s just a game of patience.” He stated plainly.

Christine was flabbergasted. Did she truly know anybody anymore? It certainly made sense in the grand scheme of things, Antoinette was quite vocal in her rants and ravings about the current ownership of the Opera House. She had so many questions she wanted to ask about this whole ghost business, but her friend was now dancing on stage and she soon was swept up in the art. She had not realized she was leaning against the balustrade of the box, tears leaking from her eyes, until the performers were coming out for their curtain call.

She glanced back to see Erik in the shadows, watching her with an immensely pleased expression on his face. It dawned on her it was not the ballet he had been interested in this whole time.

He took her through back rooms and nonpublic hallways, until they were once again outside his vehicle. Tonight, she had felt so much joy, she had tasted beauty in ways she had thought she never could, and it was this man, with all his eccentricities, who had made it possible. The night still felt so young, she wanted to wear this gown and listen to his voice forever.

“I wonder, could we take a walk somewhere?” She asked, trying not to sound too thirsty for his time.

Nodding, he reached out and tenderly stroked her cheek before opening the door of the Phantom for her. She wanted him to keep touching her like that forever. “I shall have park the car in its garage first.”

Her body was buzzing, thinking on the possibilities of the night, who would kiss who first, perhaps she should… They were blocks away from the Gilded Cage when Christine noticed the flash of someone walking on the quiet sidewalk, she though she recognized. She glanced at Erik, who had his focus pointed towards the road, surely it could not have been the man with the red hair…  
Christine shook her head, perhaps she was tired after all.

They parked the Phantom and walked the two blocks required to enter Central Park. Walking deep towards the center of the park, Erik told Christine of some of his Russian travels. He was a magician, a very famous one who toured around with fairs enchanting audiences with tricks and song. He mentioned Russian romantic music being a particular favorite. It was the most Christine had ever heard him speak, this was a subject with which he was more than happy to indulge her in.

He asked her to tell him stories about herself, and she obliged, feeling particularly dull in comparison to someone who had lived a life such as he. She told him of Sweden, the parts she remembered, of the story of the Angel of Music, which he was curiously intrigues by. Nearly an hour had passed, they had been strolling deeper and deeper into this beautiful park. They had only encountered a small handful of people, primarily in the beginning of their walk, on the out edges of the huge expanse of space.

“This is where I wanted to take you.” He said.

She knew this place. Bethseda Terrace, it was one of Central Park’s most beautiful features. With a large angel adorned fountain proudly standing before a set of granite grand staircases rising two levels. Her favorite detail was the underpass, a lower passage that went underneath Terrace Place, it was gorgeous inside, with columns and archways, similar to classical Roman buildings.

He gently took her hand and escorted her into the passage. Her footsteps echoed around her, the acoustics in this space would be wonderful for singing, the thought. Her mouth opened to tell Erik of her idea, but she was stopped when Erik grew stiff.

He pulled her toward him by one arm, He captured her lips with his and she instantly swooned. The kiss was hard yet sweet, there was a desperation there, but also some other sublime emotion she could not articulate. The kiss was brief, when he pulled back, he looked into her eyes and she was startled by the depths of sorrow she suddenly saw fully evident there.

“I am so very sorry, Christine.” He mourned, his voice dripping with a thick kind of sadness.

 _‘He’s apologizing for kissing me, when I’ve been hoping for it all night long.’_ She thought. Her mouth flew open, still tingling from the heat of that first kiss, she was going to correct him. _“I wanted this”_ She was going to say, but she could not say the words because the next thing she was aware of was a thin spider like coil shooting from the sleeve of Erik’s suit jacket.

Time slowed down. The thin length of catgut soared through the air, wrapping neatly around the hand holding a pistol. Erik yanked the rope and the gun flew from the man’s hand, skittering across the granite floor like a large black beetle trying to flee a crushing blow. Christine watched as Erik jerked the man with the red hair and the bent nose forcefully towards him with nearly superhuman strength. One beautiful, long fingered hand jutted out and gripped the man tightly about the throat, lifting the man up until his toes could not touch the floor.

He looked like a vengeful God preparing to serve death to this man on a silver platter, the sheer magnitude of his power emanated from him in waves. Holding the shorter man by the throat with one hand, Erik’s hands looked almost skeletal from the force of the grip, the tendons pulled taut. The man was kicking and flailing, like a wriggling fish who had just been hooked and pulled from the water, but Erik held him straight out from his body with a long arm to avoid the blows. His arms must be impeccably strong to be capable of holding a grown man that way.

“Who are you working for?!” Erik growled, his voice was sinister, evil, frightening. This was the hidden side of Erik she knew she was never meant to witness, the efficient killer. She helplessly watched as Erik’s other hand reached up and in one fluid motion pinched the man’s nose and broke it in one clean jerk. The man yelped, clawing at his throat, his face turning nearly as red as his hair. Erik suddenly had something in his hand, a switchblade, the blade ejecting from the handle with a threatening, sickening metallic hiss. He lowered the man down, allowing his feet to touch earth again, but maintained his grip on his throat. He placed the tip of the blade against the soft flesh where the throat meets the chin and repeated his words. “Who sent you?” The threat in his voice was unmistakable.

“What you do to me can’t be worse than what he will do if I betray him.” The man forced out through coughing breaths, his nose bleeding profusely, the bone of his nose protruding out of the skin and the flesh rapidly swelling.

“You clearly do not know me.” Erik darkly purred; he penetrated the man’s shoulder with the knife. The man tried to scream but Erik clenched his hand around the man’s throat to stop him from issuing the sound. The man could only emit a pathetic groan of agony. “Ah, you see, I am well versed in the places which produce the most pain. Joints are terribly tender locations, I daresay if you were to survive this night, you would never use that arm again.”

Christine felt incredibly sickened by this exchange, conflicted by her feelings on this violence. This man was preparing to murder them, to shoot them down in this park like animals, but her date was far too skilled in the matters of death for that to have happened.

That long, thin switchblade was at the man’s belly now, sinking into his flesh like butter and receiving a sharp twist. Again, the man tried to scream from the pure, indescribable pain inflicted but Erik gripped his throat to keep the air from escaping.

“Once more. I am growing quite impatient.” Erik spat, he allowed the man the reach the earth again and take in a small breath. “Tell me who you work for.”

“I refuse.” The man choked out; his voice nearly broken. “He’s going to get you, all of you booze smuggling scum...you’ll all die.”

He lifted the man again by the throat, gripping the knife in that beautiful hand that had just this evening stroked her face with such tenderness. That blood-soaked blade was at the man’s mouth, forced inside and then jerked to the side to neatly slice the man’s cheek wide open. The sound of the blood and the air escaping the man’s now butchered face nearly made Christine vomit. Erik had just ruthlessly sliced this man’s face open as though filleting a tender piece of meat.

“Once more, I ask you. I will allow you to live if you respond truthfully, this is a generous offer from someone such as I. Who are you working for?”

The man tried to spit at Erik, but his flapping cheek and mouth were nonfunctioning. “No.” He gurgled, blood and saliva dripping from the massive wound in his face.

“Death then.” Erik dropped the knife. He released the man and in one fluid motion brought both hands up like a pouncing feline, each gripping a side of the man’s skull and twisted his face around. A loud cracking sound penetrated the air around them, echoing around the passage, as the man’s head was forced to point in the opposite direction. Erik released the man, who fell to the ground like a sack of flour. Erik pulled out a clean handkerchief and began to wipe his hands clean of blood.

Christine was petrified, frozen in place, staring at the dead man.

“Christine.” She heard her name, but she could not pull her eyes away from the slumped body on the ground, could not stop replaying the cruelty she just saw from Erik. He had done this before, many times before, of that she was certain. How could a man who made her feel such beautiful things be capable of such effective methods of torture?

“Christine.” She looked up to see Erik before her, his hands up as though he was trying not to spook a frightened animal. He looked like he was worried she would run. “Christine, I swear I will never harm you.”

She silently shook her head in acceptance, she was not certain what she was agreeing to, but it seemed like the correct thing to do under the circumstance.

“Christine, I’m going to take you home, yes?” His eyes were sad, she could see that sorrow returning to their golden depths, clouding the odd glow that lit them at night.

He placed a gentle hand on her back and began to quickly guide her away from the scene of the crime. They needed to get out of this park before someone saw them, they had been lucky enough as it was not to have been interrupted. Despite the late hour, people still went on walks through the park, this city never truly slept.

The trip out of the park was uneventful, leaving behind the body of the man like forgotten luggage. Erik ushered her towards the secret entrance of his home.

“What did you do in Persia, Erik?” Christine quietly demanded, she was fairly certain she knew but she needed him to tell her first.

He sighed. “Many things. Magician, architect, advisor...assassin. That is what you wish to hear, is it not? I was a hired killer, Christine.” Reaching up to some hidden place, she did not quite see where, he triggered the mechanism that opened the door. Everything about this man was either terrifying or wonderful, his duality so pronounced it made her feel simple in comparison. Earlier this evening she fancied herself falling in love with him, but who was she falling in love with? Her feelings had grown so complicated, like a tangle of wires, she could not decipher where each one began and ended. He carried so much beauty and blood and mystery in his hands that she feared she would never fully understand him, could such a man be understood? Perhaps that was part of his great allure, that mysticism and darkness. As Arthur had said, death and beauty lie hand in hand.

“Why did you apologize in the park?” She whispered.

They stood in the pitch black of the tunnel, his eyes lit up like a cat’s, starting down at her in that strange way they did. “Do you truly need to ask?”

“No, I suppose not. I’m fairly certain I know why.”

“And?” He asked, his resonating voice seemed strained, was there fear there too?

“I still cannot bear to be away from you, despite it all, despite how utterly terrifying you are. I should run, I should never see you again, but I can’t Erik. My pull to you to is too great.” She should be crying, should be screaming, should be falling apart like the delicate flower she was supposed to be, but instead she felt nothing for the man in the park. “Is there something wrong with me, that I could witness such an act yet remain here with you?” She whispered brokenly.

His hands reached up gently working their way into her hair, the sensation woke her body up to pleasant tingling sensations. Only moments ago, he had brutally murdered a man who had tried to end their lives and here she was swooning beneath his touch as thought the horror-show had never occurred. “It pains me that you fear me, but I will not apologize for killing that man. He tried to steal you from me.” He crooned into her ear. “You are mine to protect and protect you I will until my breath stops.”

Her heart was slamming against the cage of her ribs like a frantic rodent trying to escape. Her hands sought out his face in the dark, tentatively feeling for his lips. She could feel his breath on her fingertips as she brushed them and let out a repressed sound of pleasure. Clutching the collar of his suit, she alighted herself higher by standing on the balls of her feet and pulled his face her hers. Lips connected in the dark, that electric spark that always came from their touches hit them both like a jolt. He moaned and she decided it was the most enthralling sound ever to grace her ears. Hands gripped her tight in the dark, pulling her into him like a drowning man finding salvation.

When their mouths opened for each other, their breaths mingling in tandem, the heat of their tongues meeting for the first time, she felt dizzy from the potency of the sensations. Christine had kissed many times before, but now she felt like she was also a novice and they were on this strange journey of exploration together, learning what pleasure was for the first time. There was something thrilling in knowing this man how had just delivered death so easily was capable of eliciting this hunger in her, that knowledge was overwhelming. He was lethal, but not to her, never to her, instead he made her feel alive in ways she never knew. How peculiar, the bond they now shared.

The kiss grew more urgent, more demanding, until she knew what she had to do. It had to be here in the dark or she would lose her nerve. She dropped to her knees like a woman in prayer.  
He must have been too stunned or too eager to stop her, for he stood in silent awe, panting slightly, as she began fumbling with the closure of his trousers in the dark. Perhaps it was all the death and blood and fear of the evening, but this moment felt entirely necessary for them.

“Christine…” She heard him breathe, it was nearly a question.

“Let me.” She hoarsely whispered.

Her mouth and hands worked magic in the dark as she reenacted the images in her dream and the tunnels were filled with the low groans of a ghost who had finally crossed over.


	20. Don Juan, It Burns

** Chapter Twenty: Don Juan, It Burns. **

****

Indescribable, this sorcery she had performed upon him. He was not naïve, when she bowed before him like a devoted servant and began to clumsily grasp at his trousers, he knew her intent. Lord knows he had briefly stumbled upon enough couples engaged in this very ritual, secreted away in dark corners, unaware of the passing ghost in their presence. His interloping person would inwardly snarl, disgusted with the act he had just witnessed, knowing such carnal delight was never meant for one such as he. A minuscule part of him had wanted to halt Christine and demand that this act was beneath her, but then she had pleaded for permission. _Surely, she cannot find pleasure in this,_ He had thought, but then her moans began to mingle with his…he may have underestimated and misunderstood his little bird.

It was pleasurable to the point of agony. Countless times he had tried to imagine what such a thing would be like, to seek fulfillment from another, yet no fantasy could possibly match. All he could do was helplessly lean against the wall of the tunnel while wave after wave of ecstasy washed over him. Time was suspended in the air like an insect trapped in amber, until it all came rushing forward in one glorious, exquisite rush.

Standing there, panting for breath in the pitch dark of the tunnel, sated in a way he had never been, he was struck with the urge to steal her and never return her to the surface. Could it not just be she and he, together, creating this bliss for all eternity? He felt dangerously possessive, it terrified him, the potency of this urge to keep her. Birds need to fly, do they not?

He aided her to her feet, pulling her to him like a shipwrecked sailor clinging to the only piece of floating debris in the sea, and kissed her. Their flavors mingled there, it did not concern him in the least, he thought it quite wonderful.

“Stay with me tonight.” He purred into her ear and she nodded into his chest.

Leading her back to his apartment, he dimmed some of the lights as they entered, extinguished the light of the chandelier. After what happened in the tunnel, he was feeling a strange bout of self-consciousness, suddenly aware of who he was. There in that darkness she had momentarily made him feel like a man, he did not want to break that spell with too much illumination. He strode across the dark sitting room to switch on a Tiffany floor lamp located near the piano, finding the medium amber glow to be sufficient.

She sat upon the chaise lounge, fidgeting with her dress, it was quite clear she also was unsure of herself in this moment. _Is she having regrets?_ , he wondered sadly. Desperate for something to break the peculiar tension, he found himself before the bar cart preparing two nightcaps. The Gin was a particular favorite of his, sweet, almost fruity. It was easy to drink straight.

He handed her the drink and sat at the opposite end of the chaise. The night had proved very strange indeed, he was replaying the plethora of events in his head, the swirl of beauty and blood they witnessed this evening. Christine had every reason to be terrified of him after watching the vicious torture of that man in the park. He was, at the very least, grateful the man declined to answer his query, because despite having assured him of his salvation with the provision of information, he had no intention of carrying out such a promise. The man would have died regardless. Erik was only glad Christine did not need to witness that level of dishonest cruelty. She had already seen enough of his capabilities.

She took a large sip of her drink and sighed, closing her eyes as the drink started its intended effect. “What was that rope you used?” She quietly asked, almost casually, as though asking him where he bought his shoes.

He hesitated, but decided they had come this far, he may as well allow her in now. How could he continue to keep all these doors closed when she had given so much of herself already? “It is called a Punjab Lasso. I became skilled with it during my travels through India.”

“May I see it?” She sounded nervous, like she was asking to hold someone’s pet snake.

He allowed the coil of catgut to slip from his jacket sleeve into his hand and presented it to her. She accepted it with shaking fingers and examined the inconspicuous grey weapon. It looked so harmless in her hands; she lacked the skill to give it the power it needed. In his hands, it was almost a living thing, an extension of himself, so much so that he never left his home without ensuring it was safely tucked in its customary place. Never before had be allowed another to touch it without meeting their demise. He was exposing a part of himself to her, there was a certain amount of intimacy to this act.

“How does it work?” She asked as she handed it back to him while taking another sip of her drink, she had nearly finished it and would surely be feeling its effects. 

“Hold up your arm.” He softy replied. Standing up he took a few steps back from where she sat on the sofa. With a flick of his wrist the lasso was about her arm and pulled taut without her having seen it, a lethal magic trick.

“Did you use it to kill those three men that night of Keenan’s death?” She asked as he flicked his wrist again to gently remove the lasso from her arm, skillfully recoiled it and caused it to vanish from his hand.

“I did.” He firmly told her. “Again, I refuse to apologize, they would have killed you, Christine.”

She finished her drink and held it up, giving the glass a shake to indicate she desired a second. The first drink was quite a lot, even by his standards, causing him to pause. He took her glass and moved to refill both drinks with another generous portion of Gin. If she needed to get drunk right now, he would permit it, he could refuse her nothing.

“What does it feel like when you kill, Erik?” She boldly questioned as he handed her the second glass of Gin. Her eyes were gazing into his with a strange ferocity, as though making it clear she would not allow him to avoid answering the question. This was important to her, it seemed.

“That greatly depends on the circumstance.” He calmly replied, while tapping an idle finger on the side of the glass.

“Tonight?” She asked. “What did you feel tonight?”

“Rage.” He responded, pausing a moment, unsure if he should continue. “But also…relief.”

“Relief?” Her brows furrowed.

He hummed and nodded his head, sitting upon the chaise again. “That man knew who you are, knew what you look like. It relieved me greatly to reduce that threat.”

She gently nodded then took another large pull from her drink. Her face was looking a bit flushed from the alcohol, her lipstick long smudged from their encounter in the tunnel, her eye makeup crumbling slightly, but she looked lovelier than ever in that warm glow emanating from the stained-glass lampshade. No, he did not feel anything but relief for removing that man who would seek to harm this delicate woman before him.

“How many have you killed?” She then blurted out. He silently sighed, he was already expecting this question.

“Countless.” He looked away and took a quick sip of his drink. “A hundred, perhaps more. I am not sure. There are many whom met their fate not at my hand, but by methods I devised. In Persia, the Shah's mother delighted in deaths that amused.”

“You could have refused.” She whispered; her eyes pointed away.

He reached out and stroked her cheek with the tips of his fingers. “I have not always been a good man, Christine.” He crooned. “I have carried much vitriol towards mankind. I have been taught since childhood to hate, forced to kill when I was naught but a boy, my innocence was stripped from me in one violent act. I was irrevocably changed.” Her eyes made contact with his. “I do not make excuses for what I have done, nor do I expect you to understand.”

Her second drink had quickly vanished, the sweet fragrance of juniper berries floating on her breath. “Do you suppose you are a good man now?” She whispered as she leaned in a bit, she was very tipsy now, it was quite obvious by the way her eyes slightly drooped and her words faintly slurred. Their faces were so close now.

“No.” He held her face tenderly in both of his hands. “But I will be for you.”

She dropped the empty glass onto the plush Persian rug, it landed with a dull thud, and she sighed as he softly pressed his lips to hers. Her body softened, and he took her into his arms and pulled her into him. She responded with a gin-flavored tongue and a kitten moan; his body immediately responded. He had to end this torment before it began.

“Come.” He said gruffly, standing up and holding a hand to aid her up. She swayed like a limber tree in the wind, her intolerance for the amount of Gin she consumed was now very pronounced. He guided her to his bedroom where he lit a candle on his nightstand. The dark silk comforter was pulled down for her.

He stared at her with intensity as he slowly lifted the elegant gown over her head. He could not help but drink in the sight of her standing before him in nothing but her camisole. Lifting her by her waist, he settled her onto the downy mattress.

Her hands reached up, grabbing the lapels of his jacket and began to pull him towards her. Yes, she was quite drunk it seemed.

“Your bed is so soft, come here” She breathed. “Kiss me.”

He lay next to her on top of the covers and kissed her, hungry kisses, he was going to lose himself in them. She was slowly writhing beneath him, grasping at his jacket sleeve to communicate she wanted it off. It took all of his willpower to push away from her. Those pretty lips went into a pout.

“You are foxed, my dear. You are making it quite difficult for me to act the part of the gentleman.” _I do not want you to do something you will surely regret._ He looked into her drunken, dazed eyes as they tried to focus back at him in the dim light of the candle. “It is time for sleep, yes?”

She nodded like a petulant child. “Stay with me.” She quietly insisted.

“Of course, my dear.” He snuffed out the candle and settled beside her. In the dark he felt her creeping fingers searching for his face. He tutted her and pulled them away. “Sleep, mon petit canari.”

Minutes went by until he heard the change in her breathing, her small muscle twitches, the softening of her body, all things he had come to recognize as indicators she was sleeping. Relishing her presence, a while longer, he waited until he knew she was in the deepest throes of slumber before sneaking from the bed.

The lamp was still on in the sitting room, her glass still laying on the floor. He bent down to pick it up, looking at the rim of the glass as though he would see evidence of her lips pressed upon it. Would he ever be able to wash this cup again? In the corner, the piano stood silently, the stacks of compositions neatly stacked for the occasion of company. Inspired he walked over to the pile of his original works, an opera he had been working on for years…

Flipping through the pages, reading his music, hearing the play of the instruments in his head, his lips turned down into a scowl. Here were the written works of a man who had never experienced pleasure, the ramblings of a broken spirit who was envious of the happiness of others. It suddenly felt trivial and worthless, the labor a waste, what did he truly know of passion then? How could he have possibility understood what it means to need something as desperately as he needed her?

He gripped the handfuls of the compositions in his long hands, crushing them and tossing them into the fireplace. A match was lit and he stood as he watched years of effort burn in a matter of seconds.

It was time to write a different kind of music.


	21. Näkken

** Chapter Twenty-One: Näkken **

****

Like a delinquent child who had snuck out of his home all night, Erik crept back into the bedroom and into the bed before Christine began to stir. The bed was warm with her heat, he wanted to curl up in it like a sun-starved reptile. Delicate lashes began to flutter like the fluttering wings of a butterfly before her lids slowly drew open. He was lounging on his side, with one elbow propped up on the bed, his head resting in the hand of that arm, gazing at her as she awoke. She was so close he could smell her warm bouquet fanning his senses, tempting him to draw nearer.

She blinked a few times, trying to register her surroundings. “What time is it?” She asked in the dark.

“Late morning, you’ve been sleeping very soundly.” He replied softly.

She bolted up with a panic. “The Girys must be worried sick!” She looked down at her state of undress and put her hands on her head, looking around in a daze as though trying to discern where she had put her clothing the night prior.

He sat up and reached over to the nightstand, pulling the chain on the small lamp there to turn it on. “Fret not, I have informed Antoinette of your location. She had quite a few questions, but I think I have appeased her.”

Her brows furrowed, he wanted to reach out and smooth that concern off her face. “What did she say?” Her eyebrows lifted; he could see her imagining what such a conversation would sound like.

“She disapproves, like any good mother would.” He shrugged; the disapproval of others had lacked the ability to concern him. “However, she knows I have good intentions where you are concerned. Are you feeling well?”

She nodded the sighed. “I believe I had too much Gin.”

He laughed, the sound escaping his lips startled him. “Enough to make most men walk a bit sideways. I fear my pour can be a bit heavy-handed.” He reached his fingers out to smooth an errant curl from her face. “Do you remember the entirety of last night?”

She put her head in her hands and groaned. “You must think me a loose woman. First what I did in the tunnel, and then…”

“Never.” He nearly blurted, gently peeling her fingers from her face like the skin of a delicate fruit. “Do not regret that, Christine, I could not bear it.”

“I don’t truly, I just…” He rubbed her eyes. “You denied me…” Her face scrunched up in an uncomfortable expression “Why?”

He hummed, ah, she felt the bitter sting of rejection. He wanted to shake her and insist she was mad for feeling such a thing, but he needed to sooth her wounded pride like ruffled feathers. “I had my reasons.” He stated bluntly.

She folded her arms, a strong, stubborn gesture. “Go on.”

“You were three ships to the wind, Christine. Taking a drunk woman is not exactly my style.” He said in a tone that implied drunk women threw themselves at him daily and it was growing tedious. He saw her expression; she was not taking the bit completely. She just stared at him wordlessly.

“Why are you closing yourself off to me again?” She complained as she pulled the comforter higher. “You’re keeping things from me.”

He gave a heavy sigh. “Christine. Last night you gave me a gift so beautiful, I cannot even fathom it.” He paused. “But I do not wish to continue in the dark, like a shameful animal. I want to see you…I want you to see me.”

She shook her head, she looked frustrated. “I don’t understand, Erik. You are speaking in riddles.”

He jerked his face away, unable to look into those big, blue eyes. This was a confession he did not wish to make, it forced his hand into vulnerable territory he was not yet prepared for. “I yearn for a woman who can look upon my bare face as I give her pleasure. I will not settle for anything less; it is all I have ever desired.” He straightened up, the walls again firmly in place around his heart. He moved to get out of the bed and her hand reached out to touch his arm.

“Why do you not show me?”

“You are not ready, Christine.” He stood abruptly, he moved to a chair by the door to retrieve his suit jacket.

“I’m not ready, or you’re not ready?” She insisted, anger curling her words.

“Come, my dear, I will prepare you some breakfast.” He refused to look at her, to see how exquisite she looked sitting up in his bed, surrounded by his sheets, in the center of a room he built. The illusions he had presented her of who he was were quickly crumbling, making him a poor magician indeed, she was learning all of his secrets. She knew far too much about him now, he felt like a beast who had exposed his soft underbelly to the sharp blade of hunter. He held no cloak of mystery now to protect him.

Sharing his past was one thing, his face was an entirely different matter. How could she possibly understand the life he led because of the hideous thing he called a visage? Did she not glean the understanding, from all of their conversations, that his face was the foundation of everything that he was? It had made him the efficient killer, the dark lord of death.

It had been so easy to pretend with her until now, to take her out as any man would, to buy her finery and delight her at shows. Now that he knew what had to happen next, he felt the entire mirage crumbling away before him. No woman had ever looked upon his face with anything but fear and disgust. His fantasy, to press his naked face upon the skin of a woman in the throes of passion had eluded him his entire life.

He strode through the sitting room, towards the kitchen.

“Erik!” She had chased behind him.

He spun around. She was standing there, a vision in her camisole, it was worn, but that did not matter. She could wear a potato sack about her body and still look like perfection. Those pale gold curls were tousled around her face, they had become a weakness for him.

“I watched you brutally end a man’s life last night, yet I remained by your side. Do you truly think I cannot handle your face?”

He walked to the bar cart and poured himself a couple fingers of Gin. They were doing this, so be it. He was furious, he downed the Gin and sat upon the red velvet chaise, his posture still proud.

She padded over to where he sat and settled herself down on the floor before him. Her camisole rode up her legs as she did so, his body was warring with a battlefield of emotions.

“Will this satisfy that cursed female curiosity of yours?” He spat, his anger was rapidly spooling out now.

“You said this was inevitable, Erik.” She softy spoke. “Perhaps…” She looked down and dipped her fingers into the thick carpet, fidgeting. Her nervousness was beginning to show, he realized. For all her bold talk, she was having doubts now. “Perhaps, you could describe it to me first.” She gently suggested. “To prepare us both.”

He stared at her with an unreadable expression before eventually giving a silent nod. Inside he was fuming. Normal men did not need to have conversations of this sort with the women they love. That obnoxiously attractive French fop who came into the Gilded Cage looking for Christine would never need to understand such degrading exposure. The unfairness of it all did not allude him.

It took him a moment to gather his thoughts. How does one describe a face such as his? It had been so long since he had seen the damned thing himself that it struck him that he was not entirely certain if he truly remembered. Imagine, not knowing your own face!

He cleared his throat, his eyes leaving hers and falling to the floor. Suddenly he felt very small. The absurdity not lost on him that he could be reduced from the all-dangerous assassin to a terrified child simply from the stare of this fragile canary’s blue eyes. 

“I have had the distinct pleasure of once holding the title of ‘The Living Corpse’,” His throat suddenly felt incredibly thick. “I look like death, you see. That is no exaggeration, my face is ghastly, to say the least. Like something buried and dug up a few months later.” He willed himself to meet her eyes again. “It is composed of skin and bone; I lack the fat that fleshes a face out in a manner that is deemed…normal. But,”, He swallowed, but attempted to sound casual, as though discussing his face in such detail was of no consequence “The real pièce de resistance is indubitably my lack of a nose.” At the deliverance of this last bit of information his shoulders slouched just slightly forward and his hands clenched into fists, knuckles turning white, as though willing himself not to flee the room. He was certain he looked like some predatory cat what would pounce on her, not a man who was internally fighting his instinct to walk out the door.

The look in her wide, doe eyed stare was direct, deliberate and full of clarity, but he could see the recognizable traces of morbid curiosity hiding within their depths. “Show me.” She whispered.

Originally, he had planned to close his eyes while they pursued this humiliating activity, he did not wish to see the revulsion in her eyes, did not want to watch her if as she fled the room or desperately searched for a place to vomit. If she desired a show, he damn well was going to give her one. Without taking his eyes from hers, he lifted his hand and, with long fingers, revealed his face to her by yanking the mask free from his face and flicking it across the room.

Cowardice took him at the last moment and he closed his eyes, waiting for her negative reaction.

Years as a treasured and successful freakshow exhibition had taught him what to expect. He had seen every ugly side to humanity there was, seen every possible reaction that could be gleamed from his face. In Persia he often used it as a weapon of terror, alerting his victims that death had come for them, for Death was he.

He knew from this angle Christine could see nearly inside his skull through the hideous hole were his nose should be. If she had wanted to see his face, she had picked the best possible place for the worst possible view.

Suddenly there were hands on his face. His eyes shot open to see this waif of a woman crouched before him, wide eyes, mouth agape, looking like a little nymph, touching his face.

“You look…mythological.” She breathed.

He snorted “Indeed, like a specter of doom.” He retorted, his anger still simmering beneath the surface. _She is touching my face. Nobody has touched the face of Erik this way._

“No, like an ancient God.” She knelt back and considered him for a moment, a quizzical expression lighting her features. “Have you ever heard of the Näkken?” She whispered.

“Indulge me.” He purred back.

“My father used to tell me the story of a water spirit who lives in lakes and streams. He plays the violin so beautifully and his yellow eyes, they glow in the nighttime, you can sometimes see them below the glassy surface of the water. He lures women and children into his depths with the song of his violin.” She resumed touching the planes of his face, her eyes still wide with curiosity and wonder. “My father would warn me to stay away from the lake, for fear of the Näcken’s unearthly song, lest I fall prey to his magic and drown.”

“I remind you of a cautionary tale your father told you?” He raised an eyebrow; he watched her face take on a quirky expression. Ah, he realized, she had never seen his facial expressions before now. _How surreal this must be for her_.

“A bit…”

“How flattering, to be compared to a spooky tale one tells children to keep them in line.” He was fully exposed, all he had to protect him was sarcasm now. “And what now, Christine. Now that you have seen that I am indeed the monster from your legends. Are you afraid I am here to drag you down below the surface to your demise?”

She shook her head the very slowly and gently spoke. “Perhaps the greatest danger is not drowning, what if the real danger is falling in love with the Näkken and shunning the world to remain in his realm?”

He stilled and felt himself penetrate her with his stare. “Love?” He whispered.

She looked away, her fingers worrying the hem of her camisole. “You are indeed the most terrifying man that I have ever met, Erik. And yet…” She looked at him through her lashes. “I feel I am losing myself to you.”

“It must be my dashing good looks, I am a kind of Don Juan, you know.”

She kissed him then. “No more self-degrading words.” She fervently pleaded. “I cannot bear it any longer. It should not matter what you look like, I do not wish for it to matter. I am not the rest of the world.”

The initial degradation he felt melted away into a sweet, heated emotion. Dropping down to his knees before her, he gripped her chin and took her mouth into a rough kiss. She groaned, kissing back. This was happening, his everlong fantasy was playing out like a film. This was a dream, surely.

Ripping his lips away from hers, he put his lips to the shell of her ear and growled seductively, “When a woman has seen me as you have, she belongs to me forever.”

She moaned and he could not help the sudden lust that overtook him. He possessed her lips once more, willing her to open for him like a flower inviting the sun. Their tongues brushed roughly against one another and he only became partially aware of the manner his hands began to wander her body.

He pushed her down upon the plush carpet, situating a knee between her thighs as she sighed in his mouth and the kiss grew deeper, but he wanted it deeper, wanted to disappear inside her mouth. She was gyrating her hips upon his knee, making whimpering sounds like a bird in pain. That throbbing part of him was pressed against her thigh, his hips jutting and flexing in a desperate attempt to ease the agony. Their moaning and panting mingled as they sought for some form of relief from this physical torment.

It suddenly occurred to him he was nearly ready to take her shamelessly like some kind of predator right here on this Persian rug, like some animal. He broke away and lifted himself up to look at her. She was laying sprawled upon the carpet like a woman who was ready to be claimed, her camisole hiked up her slender thighs. Those pretty bee’s kiss lips swollen and pink from his passionate ardor, eyes locked onto his and filled with a wanton expression he could not believe was aimed at him. Both were trying to catch their breath.

The telephone rang. He stared at her, dumbfounded. He pressed his hand to his face to ensure he truly was standing before her sans mask.

Loud, annoying ringing continued in the background, until he finally relented.

“That irritating Persian!” He growled as he stood up. “He delights in ruining my life.”

He made quick strides to the phone, forcefully ripping the ivory handled receiver from its cradle. “Daroga, what do you require?” He barked. Nadir stated his business, very urgent business. Erik sighed. “Very well, come down, but do not upset my guest.” Turning around he looked upon the morsel awaiting him, sprawled out on the expensive rug like a prize to be claimed. “This is possibly the hardest thing I have ever had to do, mon petit canari, but I suppose you should get dressed. We have a very vexatious guest arriving, if he laid his eyes on your glorious body, I would be forced to remove them from his head.” He walked over to her, dropping next to her on the rug, then added at her expression. “I tease, my dear, I would never intentionally harm that man.”

He aided her up and led her to the bedroom. Across the room was a wardrobe, he opened it and withdrew a dress. “I suppose I ought to confess to my weakness for buying you beautiful things.” He said as he handed her the garment.

She stared at the elegant day dress and nodded. “I suppose we should also discuss breaking into my home to place them there?”

“We shall discuss boundaries at another time, my dear.” He retorted. “If you deprive me of all of my tricks, how on earth can I charm you?” The corners of his lips lifted slightly.

There came the sound of a loud bell ringing throughout the apartment.

Erik looked at Christine. “Get dressed, my dear. The good Daroga is stuck in a trap again.”

As he ran out the door, he heard her question follow him.

“A trap?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Fun Leroux unmasking scene references!


	22. A Tear Upon His Lips

** Chapter Twenty-Two: A Tear Upon His Lips **

****

It was a haunting face. As he had sat there, verbally spinning a description of his visage, Christine began to feel her stomach perform an acrobatic dance. His words had not aligned with anything her mind had produced in all the times she had employed her imagination to postulate on his features. When he finally removed that well-crafted white mask, she realized she could never have conjured a face so terrible in all of her wildest dreams. She had felt faint, steeling herself against her initial reflex to gasp or swoon. _Do not re_ act, she had told sternly scolded herself, _He is still the same man._

Initially, she felt a strong sort of revulsion, for he did indeed look like a living corpse. Yet as he sat there, his eyes closed, exposed to her, looking incredibly vulnerable, like resigned livestock patiently awaiting the slaughter, she felt immense shame for her first reaction. In a moment of revelation, sharpening into crystal clarity, came the understanding of what this man before her must have been required to endure throughout his lifetime. Acceptance and love must have doggedly alluded him, for no other reason but his physiognomy. His life should have been crafted of beauty, instead he had walked down a path of blood and despair. Would his life have played out differently had his countenance been formed as other men’s? He had claimed he wanted to be a better man for her, should she allow him such an opportunity?

Fingers, acting of their own accord, had reached out to tentatively press themselves against that face, as if entranced. Perhaps she needed to prove such a face was indeed real, perhaps she aimed to prove to herself she could indeed touch it. Those gold eyes had opened to meet hers and she saw it then, the undisguised shock and longing, it was clear nobody had ever touched his face so tenderly. Her heart had melted then, pooling into her belly like a warm, gooey puddle, that she could provide such comfort to his emotionally scarred man. Another little piece in the jigsaw puzzle of her heart resided within him now and she would never be capable of reassembling that puzzle without him.

The tale of the Näkken rushed into her full force, a story her father had once told her which sent her into fits of shivers, clutching her blankets up around her face at night as she watched for glowing yellow eyes to come drag her away and pull her into the water. The legend had taken on a new meaning now. Erik was her Näkken, her dark, misunderstood god, and he was desperately awaiting her to take that plunge and sink into his murky, mysterious domain, to live alongside him in his bizarre world of magic, music and wonder. She felt herself drowning already, powerless to resist the force dragging her down with him and she discovered she did know if she had the will to fight it. He petrified her, yet strangely fulfilled her all the same.

Quickly dressing into the gorgeous burgundy day dress he had provided, her feet were soon carrying her back into the sitting room where he stood awaiting her. The mask still absent from his face, she found herself in a tug of war between knowing whether or not to stare. What action would he take most offense by, her shameless gaze or her avoidance? He did not seem to notice, standing proudly as she entered the room, a look of supreme satisfaction in his eyes. His expressions were foreign things, having been buried beneath the mask. She saw him raise non-existent eyebrows, his eyes growing wide momentarily at the sight of her, before returning to an indecipherable expression. _He’s trying to wear a mask even now_ , she thought.

“We must retrieve Daroga, he appears to have caught himself up in one of my deterrents.” He stated simply, as though it was the most natural topic in the world. “He may be more agreeable if you come with me.”

She nodded wordlessly, because, what does one say to such a thing?

He retrieved an electric torch from the drawer of his drafting desk and handed it to her. Together they made their way through the maze of tunnels, his cool hand gently holding hers. It was a short trip before she began to hear the voice of a man muttering curses interspersed with Erik’s name.

Drawing closer to the angry voice of the man, they came across a very red-faced Persian suspended upside down in the air by one foot, dangling and kicking like a snared wild animal. An electric torch was on the ground, dropped when the rope yanked the floor from under him. The light was pointed toward the flailing man, casting misshapen shadows onto the wall of the tunnel.

“When I get down from here Erik, I will fucking kill you!” He roared like an angry bear as he spun around on the rope like a clumsy, inverted ballerina.

“It would be terribly inefficient to have saved my life only to kill me now, would it not? Besides, you should truly watch your language around my lovely guest, Daroga, else she may think you a boor.” Erik smugly chided.

“Get me down from this confounded thing! My head feels like it will explode.” Nadir snarled.

Christine was watching the whole event with fascination. It was not every day you saw someone caught in the booby trap of your potential lover’s home. She held up the electric torch and followed Erik’s movement as he moved toward the wall and grasped the length of the rope. He roughly tugged it twice and the Persian slowly lowered to the ground. Erik lifted Nadir’s head to prevent it from hitting the hard, stone floor of the passage. Withdrawing a knife, he severed the rope around Nadir’s ankle, freeing the disgruntled man.

“I called you! I specifically informed you I was coming down from the office! What happened?!” Nadir spat as he stood up while brushing the dust off his suit.

“It was not intentional, I was…preoccupied.” Erik retorted evasively.

Nadir picked up his torch and pointed it in Erik’s direction, his face, lined with anger, momentarily flinched at the sight of Erik sans mask. Christine noticed he quickly averted his jade eyes. “I thought you were going to rid this particular tunnel of your painful little tricks.” Nadir grumbled.

“That was before we found ourselves at war.” Erik bluntly replied. “Good heavens, Nadir, where are your manners? Will you not address the lady?”

A torch shine hit Christine’s face, temporarily blinding her, she raised her hand to shield her sensitive eyes from the bright glare in the pitch of the tunnel. He jerked the light away from her, realizing his momentary blunder.

“My apologies.” Nadir muttered. “I trust you are well, Miss Daaé?”

“I am, are you?” She asked, afraid to ruffle any feathers. She could see Erik’s eyes in the dark watching her, his yellow irises lit up by the reflection of the torch she held. A pleasant shiver ran through her body.

Nadir sighed. “This is not the first time I have been caught in one of his snares, nor I am certain, will it be the last. He delights in ruining my life.”

Christine let out a peal of laughter that rang throughout the tunnel with a tinny echo, receiving raised eyebrows from Nadir. “I am sorry. I am not laughing at you. You see, Erik said the very same words regarding yourself.”

Nadir let out a snort. “Of course, he would believe that. But I’m his only friend.” Then his voice softened a bit. “Perhaps that is not entirely true now.” He straightened his jacket front. “Now, may we please vacate this terrible tunnel?”

Christine felt Erik’s hand run up her back in the dark, splaying his fingers wide as he began to guide her back towards his home with Nadir following behind them. His long digits were caressing her back through the fabric of the dress.

A little disembodied voice appeared on her right shoulder, whispering to her. ‘ _You look ravishing in that dress, mon petit canari.’_ She shined the light in his direction, to see his mouth.

“How do you do that?” She asked

 _‘Do what?’_ The voice responded; Erik’s lips did not move.

She smiled to herself in the dark. “Is there no end to your clever tricks?”

He hummed. _‘I suppose you shall have to stay long enough to find out.’_ The voice whispered seductively into her ear. She blushed; grateful Nadir could not hear the entirety of their secret conversation.

The moment the three entered Erik’s home, Nadir moved toward the couch and sat upon it. Pulling his pant leg up to reveal his ankle just above the sock line, he began to check the stripe of tender skin that had been burned from the rope. Satisfied the damage was not worse, he allowed the pant leg to fall back to its rightful place.

Erik strode over to his mask where it still lay upon the rug. Christine noticed the faint evidence of Nadir’s relief expressed upon his features when the mask was again secured firmly back in place.

“I shall prepare tea.” Erik announced, his eyes met Christine’s and the corner of his mouth tilted upward slightly before he turned on his heel and exited the room towards the kitchen.

Christine moved toward the chair sitting adjacent from the red velvet sofa Nadir now sat nervously upon. It appeared as though he was itching to say something to her but was inwardly arguing whether or not to do so. He looked down and shook his head, lightly slapping his palms on both of his knees, he leaned forward and very quietly asked. “You have not been coerced into being down here, have you Miss Daaë?” His eyes lifted to meet hers, concern lingering there.

“Absolutely not. What would inspire you to ask such a question?” She whispered back, somewhat perturbed.

“Erik can be…intense at times.” He very lowly replied, lifting his eyes up to check the door behind her, most likely to ensure their conversation was not being overheard.

“While I will not deny that statement, I hardly see how it pertains to this situation.” She furiously whispered back; her blooming irritation surprised even her.

He shrugged and leaned back and muttered, “With Erik, one never knows. He has not courted before, I had to be sure of the circumstances.”

She sat up properly into her chair, pulling her shoulders back, tilting her chin up slightly and crossing her arms over her chest. “You call yourself his friend, yet you suspect he has employed nefarious methods to bring me here?”

He shook his head, leaned forward, giving her a very direct stare. “You misunderstand. I am asking because I am his friend. Before we left Paris…he was not well.” He nearly whispered, then shook his head as though realizing he was sharing too much information. “I do not wish to see him hurt, please understand. He is not the sort of man who would take a rejection well, I need to ensure everyone’s motivations are correct here.”

She softened, she leaned forward and whispered. “They are correct.”

He simply returned her gaze for the next few moments until Erik reentered the room with a tea tray in tow.

“Are you finished having your little conversation with my guest, Daroga?” He casually remarked as he set the spread of tea upon the rich wood table before the seated two. Receiving a exasperated sigh from the Persian.

“You have ears like a bat.” Nadir muttered as Erik sat in the twin chair next to Christine, gracefully crossing one long leg over the other and sitting up with a regal air.

“One must when one has friends such as you.” Erik retorted without spite and ending the topic with a dismissive wave. “Let us discuss this new information you have.”

Nadir began digging through his jacket to retrieve a worn, brown leather notebook sandwiched with another thin journal. His bright green eyes shifted to Christine momentarily before realigning back onto Erik. “Would you prefer if your ‘guest’ was not present for such a conversation?” He hesitantly asked.

“Nonsense. Christine is quite aware of the situation at hand. Last night, in the park, we had an unfortunate encounter with the remaining man from Keenan’s murder. I was unable to retrieve much information, but he did allude to a few things.”

Nadir’s face paled, his wide gaze shot back to Christine, his hand lifted to his mouth. “Oh Allah, please tell me she did not witness the entire thing.”

Erik subtly shifted, almost guiltily. Christine looked away from Nadir, suddenly unable to look into his eyes lest she give too much away, instead pointing her eyes toward the beautiful black marble fireplace.

Erik’s hands balled into fists, his knuckles turning white from restrained rage. “He did not exactly give me much choice in the matter.” He snapped. “When a stranger attempt to gun one down in the park like a dog, one wishes to understand why. I could not let him simply die without extracting what little information I could. An unfortunate event, but we must move forward.” He stretched his hand out to accept the books.

Nadir gave a heavy, exhausted sigh, then proceeded to relay his information. “The other dates in the journal you found, the ones that align with our new favorite three letter word…they correspond with the murders of runners of operations besides our own.”

Erik was flipping through the marked page of the brown notebook studiously. “Peculiar.” He commented almost absentmindedly. “There is at least one man leading these strikes, someone who, ‘is worse than me’ as our friend in the park explained. He also seems to have a distaste for breakers of Prohibition law as well.”

Christine suddenly blurted out, “Do you think it could be The Shade?”

Both men stilled and pointed their eyes in her direction.

“Who’s the Shade?” Nadir asked with furrowed brows.

“A legend.” Erik replied. “A sort of Prohibition Boogeyman. He most likely does not exist.”

“One could have said the same about the infamous ghost of the Palais Garnier. Yet here he is in the flesh.” Nadir quipped, prompting Christine to shoot Erik a glance from the corner of her eye and purse her lips.

“Arthur has told me stories about the Shade. It’s rumored he’s feared by even Lucky Luciano.” Christine softly added.

“Why have I not heard of this, Erik? Surely as the head of this end of the business you would have been aware.” Nadir folder his arms and leaned back.

“Until recently, I did not give the tale much credence. I wrote it off as a scary story spread by organized crime to cover their own sins.”

“Should we start to take this seriously now?” Nadir asked.

“It would be wise to consider it a possibility, given what we have been told. However, we cannot rule out one of the larger organizations. Despite being stealth, we are known in some circles and such attention could make us a target for some of the larger competitors. Mobs and the like.” We made a gesture as though the topic was beginning to bore him.

Nadir rubbed his hands in his face. “This seems like a sign to quit the industry, Erik.”

“Nonsense, this industry will be more lucrative than ever given a year or two. I predict a major financial recession of sorts; it will make what I do invaluable.”

“How on earth have you come to that conclusion?” Nadir sighed.

“Statistics, Daroga.”

Nadir leaned forward and began to prepare himself a cup of tea. “This whole thing is tying my stomach into knots. I do not like this at all, Erik.”

Christine remained silent, simply sitting and absorbing the conversation taking place before her. She felt terribly out of place, as though overhearing sensitive information not meant for her ears. Did Erik truly trust her this much, to allow her into his illegal dealings this way? She was not sure whether to be flattered or appalled, to feel grateful or guilty.

Nadir tapped the fingers on one thigh as he sipped his tea. “What should our next action be, given this information?”

Erik shrugged. “We wait.” He stated simply. “There is nothing more we can do.” He stood up and began pacing. “In the meantime, I will begin looking into the circumstances of these additional murders unrelated to us, perhaps I’ll find out if this boogeyman truly exists.” He paused. “I think we will reopen the club in another week’s time, I feel confident it will be safe to do so.”

Nadir seemed to be satisfied with this strategy, for he nodded, set his cup upon the table and stood to leave. “Very well, I suppose I should go attend to additional matters.” He looked at Christine and kindly said, “It was a pleasure, Miss Daaé.” Then he looked at Erik and sternly told him. “Do not forget about those traps ever again, or I swear it will be the last time I come down here.”

Erik gave a snort of derision and rolled his amber eyes. “That is hardly a threat, Daroga. You say that as if I actually enjoy your company.”

Nadir shook his head and made his exit, pulling out his electric torch as he did so.

Christine sat silently for a while, contemplating her next words. She helped herself to a tea cake resting on the tray and began to nibble on it thoughtfully, her stomach was rumbling, she had not eaten breakfast.

Erik broke the silence. “When the club reopens, I will not allow you to work. I hope you understand. It is too risky.” He sat in the chair beside her and leaned toward her. “Do not fret over funds, I will continue to pay you.”

She nodded; she could see the softness hidden in his eyes. “I understand, but I would feel very strange accepting money for work I’ve not done.”

He waved his beautiful hand as though he was lazily batting her words away like pesky flies. “Nonsense. If you do not accept, I shall have to begin trespassing your apartment once more and we cannot have that now, hm?”

“Oh, very well.” She relented with exasperation. “No more surprise dresses in my wardrobe.”

“Good.” He purred, the standing he announced, “I believe I had promised breakfast.”

Over breakfast, which again, he did not seem to touch, she confronted him on the ghost topic. “Were you also a ghost in the Palais Garnier?” Christine asked with suspicious, narrowed eyes.

“Once a ghost always a ghost, mon petit canari.” He replied flippantly.

“And to think, all of the times I told Meg she was full of bees. Were you also attempting to own that building as well?”

He tapped his fingers on the table, he suddenly looked perturbed. Here she discovered she had stumbled upon another delicate subject for Erik. He stood from the table and removed his plate. “No, those circumstances were different.”

She could tell it was best not to press any further. He stood there, leaning against the countertop, with glowing eyes, his body language tense. If he were a cat, he would be vigorously swishing his tail back and forth. Instead of continuing her interrogation any further, she silently completed her meal, self-conscious of Erik’s gaze upon her the entire time.

“I believe I must return you to your surrogate mother.” He said with some reluctance. “I promised, you see. She expects you back after breakfast, we should not upset her.”

They had begun the morning with such passion and vulnerability, yet somehow, they were now walking on delicate eggshells around one another. The first seeds of doubt began to seep in. Could she be with a man like him, man who always had a secret to harbor, who could kill another man without a second thought, who carried with him a cloak of darkness and trauma which she feared she may never penetrate? His face suddenly seemed like such a trivial thing in comparison, yet it made him so much of who he was. Without his face, he would never have walked the road that he had.

She would have never met him...somehow the thought of that possibility seemed unbearable.

When at long last they were in his vehicle, parked in front of Christine’s apartment building, their magnetism seemed to return. Christine was reluctant to leave the interior of the automobile. There seemed to be so many things to say, to ask, to tell, she desperately wished to unravel the cocoon of who he was, to see if there was room for her inside.

He took her hands gently in his, cradling them like wounded birds, caressing the knuckles of her fingers with his. The sensation felt incredibly intimate. Looking down at their enjoined hands, she saw scars running along his palms, traveling to his wrist and disappearing under the starched cuffs of his dress shirt.

“Erik, how did you get these scars? They must have been quite painful.” She asked while tenderly tracing one of the longer scars with the tip of her finger, as though touching it may reveal their origin story.

He hummed tiredly. “Ah, my first encounter with a mirror. I daresay, I did give myself quite a fright.”

Her finger stilled its tracing as she felt her heart shatter into a thousand pieces, similar to how she imagined the mirror must have shattered beneath his hands as he broke it in fear. A tear escaped from beneath the lashes of one of her eyelids and rolled slowly down her cheek. Erik reached out one slender finger and gently collected the tear from her skin, bringing it to his lips.

“Such a gift.” He crooned.

The magnetism became overwhelming as it pulled them together. They embraced and pressed their lips desperately to one another. Christine decided she did not have the will to fight that pull after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been overwhelmed by the outpouring of thoughtful feedback from readers!   
> THANK YOU EVERYBODY!
> 
> Stay safe!


	23. The Portal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If Erik were a sweater, this is a chapter where he unravels.

Chapter Twenty-three: The Portal

Antoinette was waiting for her when she arrived. The older Giry woman was sitting upon the slightly worn green velvet sofa, wringing her hands when Christine entered the sitting room. 

“Christine, we should talk.” Mme. Giry kindly announced as she gestured to the spot beside her.  
Christine knew this discussion must be important to Antoinette, it was there in the woman’s concerned eyes, rimmed with age. As Christine sat, Antoinette continued. “I understand you have been involved with Erik in ways that extend past your duties at the club. You are an adult, you are not my daughter, I have no real say in the matter. However, I disapprove.” She stated frankly. “Before you object, you must understand why.” Mme. Giry insisted. “Meg and I owe a great deal to Erik; he has provided our home, our jobs, and more opportunities. He is, however, somewhat devious. And I have reason to suspect he has murdered a man...in the cellars of the Palais Garnier a seventeen-year-old stagehand was found dead, a very unnatural death...Erik lived down there. I am risking his wrath telling you this, but I cannot allow you to continue your relationship without knowing I have given you all you need to make an informed decision.” 

Christine felt her heart drop into her stomach like a stone plummeting to the bottom of the deepest section of the sea.

“How did you meet Erik?” Christine asked, she was desperate to think about anything other than the death of a young man.

“When I had just started working the boxes at the Palais, little Meg had been dancing there for years at that point. It was an opportunity to stay closer to her. I was assigned to his box, or rather the ghost’s box. He was already quite an established entity there, he required a salary, a box, and sometimes, creative changes to the productions. I never heard or saw him, but he would leave me sweets sometimes...” She mused distantly, then shook her head. “I encountered him one night, I was leaving late, and I had forgotten my coat. I was rushing down the hallway and there he was.” She was twisting her hands. “I had heard stories from the stage crew, whispers of what he looked like, but nothing prepared me for it. He was so thin, so tall, yet he stood like an emperor.” She shook her head. “The mask...I noticed that as well. It has been told his face is like Death’s...” She glanced up at Christine who immediately averted her eyes. “So, it’s true...” Mme Giry gasped as she covered her mouth. “Oh Christine...”

Christine did not wish to discuss, Erik’s face, it felt like a forbidden, sacred topic for her now. “You were saying? He was standing in the hallway...”

Antoinette shook her head again, flustered. “He was standing in the hallway and he was holding my coat!” The corners of her lips tilted up at the memory. “Then he made me a proposal. He wished for more ears in the opera, to keep him informed of the manager’s activities, to deliver his notes. In exchange he agreed to pay a large sum. You have to understand, after Meg’s father passed, I did my best to keep us comfortable, but box keeper positions do not pay well, and Meg was still in the ballet chorus. I know it seems I made a deal with the Devil, but I needed it. At the time he seemed harmless, perhaps extorting the managers but...not violent.” She took a deep breath; Christine could see the strain this conversation was having on Antoinette. The older woman was clearly torn between a man who had supported her family for years and a girl who had come to be almost a second daughter.

Christine nodded her head. “I would have taken the offer, Madame it is difficult to raise a child alone. Besides, Erik can be quite charming. If you came to fear him, why did you come to America to work in his employ?”

“I did it for Meg. Her dream was to become a dancer, a real dancer. In America he became both a ghost and a patron.” She saw Christine’s puzzled expression. “He’s not extorting the managers here; he genuinely supports the theatre. However, he does pull the stings creatively with his ghost persona. He plans to buy the theatre someday.” Mme Giry sighed. “I will admit, it has been different in the States, he seems different in the times I’ve spoken with him. I cannot explain it…something has changed. I do not believe he would ever harm myself or Meg, nor you...I just thought you should know my suspicions about the stagehand, I could never confront him...I do not know if it was an accident or…” She trailed off then said no more.

Christine nodded. She put her head in her hands. “I am so confused, Madame. I feel I do not know my own heart, what if I cannot help him to become a better man? He loves me, Madame, I know he love me desperately, but what if it’s not enough?”

The older Giry woman placed a sympathetic hand on Christine’s shoulder and rubbed her back maternally. “You have a good head attached to your shoulders; I know you will make the right choice when it needs to be made.” 

“Where is Meg?” Christine asked looking around.

“I sent her on some errands. We needed to discuss this without her presence. She does not know all the connections I have with Erik. She is not well versed in keeping secrets.” Antoinette gave a small smile.

Christine could not help but return the smile. “She is quite the gossipmonger, is she not?”

Her heart had been put through a meat grinder that week, she desperately needed to speak with Arthur. Excusing herself, she made for the telephone and placed a call to Arthur. He agreed to meet with her at Café Reggio later that afternoon. She arrived there early, so great was her anticipation. When he walked through the doors of the café, she felt a blanket of comfort drape itself upon her shoulders.

They did not waste time with small talk, perhaps her body language alerted him of her distress. They sat there at their table in the corner of the café, with cappuccinos untouched as he waited for her to break the ice.

“I believe I am having some issues with matters of the heart…” She trailed off, unable to put into words her dilemma without giving too much of Erik’s secrets away.

“Do you love him?” He seemed to pick up on where this was going.

Christine began to fiddle with the spoon upon the table. “I am not sure. I’ve never been in love before, but I do know what I feel is quite intense, I find myself capable of looking past all his faults...But, Arthur…He is a very strange and dangerous man.”

“I’m sure he must be, he killed three men.” Arthur said gravely.

“More than that.” She whispered, “He has quite a terrible past.”

“Are you afraid of him?” Arthur reached a hand over the table to grasp hers. 

“No; not for myself. I just worry what it says about me that I could love such a man.” Christine lowered her eyes and squeezed his hand.

“We cannot choose where we will love, Christine. I think you are brave for loving such a man, but I think he must be brave for loving you as well.”

“Why is that?” She asked, surprised.

“Because he probably knows you will change him, and men like him find that sort of change quite uncomfortable, it’s the sort of metamorphosis that occurs deep inside. It can be excruciating.” He paused looked wistfully into the distance and then continued. “Did I tell you my lover is engaged to a woman? Ralph, that’s his name, comes from big money, his family expects it of him to marry some socialite. He’s been seeing me in secret for over a year, ashamed to admit who he is. I’m kept hidden away in the dark like I’m some sort of sinful pet. He wishes to continue like this, but I don’t think I can anymore, it’s too painful to love someone who cannot give themselves over to you fully. One day he will realize he is living a lie, but by then it will be too late, I cannot wait for him.” Arthur met her gaze. “The past is filled with monsters, everyone has them, and we keep running into the future until they are too far behind to harm us. If he wishes to change, allow him that, but be sure of what you want with Erik before someone is harmed, that is my only advice to you.”

“Your advice is sound, Arthur. Thank you. What on earth would I do without you?”

“You would simply perish from indecisiveness.” He grinned.

“Perhaps.” She smirked back, then sobered. “How does that work, Ralph marrying a woman. I thought he was attracted to men?”

“The hell if I know.” Arthur snorted. “He’s going to be miserable living that lie, but if he’s too scared to take the plunge then I’m not willing to wait for him.” He sighed and rubbed the side of his handsome face with one hand, his chestnut hair falling into his eyes. “I do love the fool.”

“I hope he comes around; you are too good a man to surrender.” Christine squeezed his hand.

Arthur nodded, then leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, “So tell me, did you do that thing we discussed? Was I correct in my assessment of size?”

“Arthur!” Christine gasped, blushing profusely and grinning ear to ear like a mischievous little elf. “You would ask me such an impertinent question!”

“You little minx, you did!” Arthur began to chuckle. “I knew you were a sex kitten.”

Christine promptly reached over and playfully slapped Arthur on the cheek.  
“Keep your voice down, lest we alert this entire cafe of my personal business.” She glanced around the loud cafe, but none of the other patrons seemed to give any indication of having overheard their conversation.

“Well? Was he...impressive?” Arthur lowly and slyly asked.

Christine pursed her lips, her face burning hot from her blush. Promptly Arthur to give a belly laugh.

“Oh, you are precious,” He spurted out through fits of laughter. “I think I have my answer.”

“He is your employer; I find it highly inappropriate to be speaking of his anatomy with you.” Christine crossed her arms and spoke haughtily.

“He is your employer too, is he not.” Arthur retorted with mirth; Christine only shot him a glare. 

“Did you see his face?” Arthur asked before taking a sip of his cappuccino.

Christine followed suit, gently lifting her cup to take a sip. “Yes.” She quietly said. “No maggots.”

“What does he look like?” The curiosity in his boyish voice was unmistakable.

“Like an ancient god.”

Arthur leaned back with raised eyebrows. “He certainly is a unique fellow, hm?”

“One of a kind.” She agreed.

They spent the remainder of the day down at Battery Park, the oldest public space in New York City, walking along the Hudson River, talking about their past lives. Arthur regaled her with all the terrors he experienced growing up within a hyper-religious household, learning at a young age that homosexuality would send him to hell. 

“Little did they know I was already convinced I fancied boys.” He said. “Perhaps I am just as cowardly as Ralph, every holiday I put on a farce to my parents and feign excuses for having not married yet.”

“What would happen if you revealed your secret to them?”

“They would never speak to me again; I would most likely lose their love.” He confessed morosely.

“Truly?” Christine was flabbergasted.

“They love their god above all else, Christine.” Arthur explained dully. “They would disown me in a heartbeat.”

“How awful...” Christine felt she may cry. “Erik never knew a mother’s love, I don’t believe. He never even received a last name...”

Arthur paused. “I assume that would scar a person.” 

She nodded. “I see his inner wounds all the time, the come out in strange ways, sometimes they are endearing and sometimes they make me feel an enormous sense of pity, which he despises.”

“I gather he must be a very proud man. I know the sort, proud to a fault.” 

They stood on the edge of the river, looking out on the horizon. Watching boats sail by and birds swoop into the water to feed.

“I hope we both find the contentment we seek.” Christine said wistfully.

“We will, Christine.” Arthur said, “Sooner or later, we will.”

That night, Christine lay wide eyed in bed starting at the plaster of the ceiling, wishing Erik would come to her. He did not appear that night, eventually she slipped off into sleep.

Days passed with no word from Erik. Her days were spent in fits of worry, agitation and anxiety, stomach winded into knots. It was urgent she speak with him about the revelation she received from Mme Giry. 

As she sat in an empty apartment on the fourth night, attempting to read, she heard the knock on the front door. She nearly stumbled and fell over her own feet trying to get to the door. He was there, his white mask in place, his suit impeccable, his golden eyes peering back at her through the ajar door.

“I’ve needed to see you.” She breathed.

He reached out his long fingers and careful ran them through the strands of a delicate curl which framed the side of her face.

“I had to attend to important business matters, however, you never strayed from my thoughts.” He murmured in that honey voice she so loved.

“May we go to your home? I need to speak with you, and I would rather it not occur here in the Giry’s.”

His head tilted to the side, as though he were attempting to discern whether this would be an agreeable conversation, but he nodded his head.

The drive was done in silence. The tension palpable in the car, neither knowing what was running through the minds of the other. This night could end in sorrow or joy, it was anyone’s guess which direction that arrow would point.

Christine decided it best not to draw it out. When they were finally inside the sitting room of his apartment, she pulled up her emotional bootstraps and braced herself for the sudden question she was prepared to ask.

Now or never, she thought.

“Erik, what happened to the stagehand in Paris?” 

Erik immediately stiffened. He folded his arms, she could feel his steel walls raising, the drawbridge of the castle of his heart retracting. “I find that subject distasteful and am uninterested in discussing it.” He grew prickly, she could almost see his emotional spines protruding through the soft shell of his soul.

“I need to know, Erik.” She insisted.

“Why, exactly? What difference would it make now?” He snapped, storming over to the mantle of the fireplace, his back turned towards her, looking like a proper specter of doom with his arms spread wide, bracing himself on the mantle. 

“Nadir said you were not well in Paris. What happened Erik, does this stagehand have something to do with it?” She moved to approach him, but cowardice halted her. 

“Yes, I killed him.” He growled. “Are you satisfied?”

She gasped. “How can you be so callous? Killing men in self-defense is one thing, but that stagehand was only a boy, Erik.” Tears were pricking her eyes, but she needed to know. “Why?” She whispered. “Why? Why did you kill that boy?” 

His hands clenched onto the mantel, like he was fighting some inner demon. Perhaps she ought to be fearful, but she somehow knew he would not harm her. 

“Why does it matter now?” He quietly pleaded. 

“I’m in love with you.” She boldly stated, he turned around with wide eyes. Although she had alluded to love in the past, she had not, until this moment, made such a direct confession. “Yes. I am in love with you, Erik and that fact has me petrified. I need to know who I have given my heart to. If you do not tell me the circumstances of this death, “She took a deep, shaking breath while lifting her chin high in mock bravery. “I will leave you and never look back.”

He removed his mask, placed it upon the mantle and rubbed his face. When he lifted his head, his expression was one of resignation, his yellow eyes brimmed with shame. Silently, he approached her and began to unbutton the cuff of his right arm. Rolling up his sleeve he revealed a pale forearm marked with puckered scars in the crook of his elbow with red and blue lines radiating from them. Without thinking she gently traced a finger down the length of one, noticing how it seemed to sink beneath the skin.

“What are these?” She whispered.

“Collapsed veins, Christine. You have fallen in love with a broken man.” He mournfully admitted. “When I was in Persia, I was introduced to Opium. Traditionally it is smoked, but I feared damage to my vocal cords. I discovered morphine in Paris, it is several times more potent and can be injected.”

“Why would you use such a thing?” She softy asked, still tracing the marks with her fingers. She noticed the action gave him gooseflesh. 

“I did not always wish to be the man that I became, Christine. I had desires and wishes to live a life like everyone else.” He sighed and began rolling his sleeve down. “In Persia, I became someone I never wanted to be. The drugs, they pulled a veil around me, they made my existence tolerable, numbed me from the things I did there. I was desperate for readily available escape to flee the horrors of my world, of who I was. Arrogant man that I am, I believed it under control, yet unbeknownst to me, I had slowly become a despicable creature.” He walked back to the fireplace and stared into the pit, as though there was a raging fire ablaze there. “The stagehand was an accident.” He shook his head. “That is not true, I did kill him, I take full responsibility, but I was also unwell. I had slowly lost my grip on reality, lost in a haze or morphine and isolation. He stumbled upon me; you see. I was living in the cellars, the commune had a dungeon down there under the Palais Garnier during the revolution and I was living within it, like a ground-dwelling animal. I have no idea what he was doing in the cellars, but when he stumbled upon me without my mask, he screamed. He screamed and for a moment, when I looked into his terrified face, all I saw was every person who had ever come to gawk at me during my time as a traveling freak show attraction. I sought to silence him, and it got out of hand, I underestimated my rage. Please,” He held up a hand and sternly warned her, “Do not look at me with that pity, I cannot bear it.” 

“You were in a freak show?” 

He gave a mock bow. “Indeed, a successful one. ‘The Living Corpse’!” He motioned with his hand as though spelling the words out onto a banner. “I ran away from home at a young age. I had become a burden on my poor, unhappy mother.” He paced was pacing in circles, it was clear, by the rigidity of his posture, this subject was difficult for him. “I was captured by gypsies and they made me an involuntary star. Would you be shocked if I told you I was required to kill for the first time to escape such degradation? I was a young boy learning that killing could be the means to an end.” 

Christine moved to the chair, feeling faint from this sudden wealth of information. “And now? Do you still...” She took a breath. “Do you still use the drugs?”

“No. Paris was the last time.”

“What caused you to stop?” She asked as she sat upon the chair, head reeling from the confession of trauma and degradation. 

“Nadir.” He began to pace again like a caged tiger. “He found me, tracked me down, actually. He is actually quite a good policeman, you see. He is this only man who has ever managed to find me twice.” He gave a soft, sad chuckle. “Perhaps I left him breadcrumbs, perhaps I wished for him to find me.” He mused. “This was shortly after the body of the stagehand was found, rumors were spreading around the Palais, Nadir somehow knew it was my handiwork. I’ll spare you some of the inane details, but there was a confrontation. He informed me of all he had lost saving my life in Persia.” He noticed her puzzled expression as she attempted to follow the winding bends of his tale. “Oh, yes, my dear, I ought to be dead. The shah had lost his use for me, I had become too powerful, my services too unique. The shah feared I would share my talents with other kings, he was quite the petty tyrant. I was to be executed. Nadir alerted me of the plot, the day he came for my arrest, to this day I cannot understand why.” He returned to the mantle and began tapping the finger of one hand upon it. “He helped me escape and then stayed behind to face the consequences. The good Daroga was imprisoned for years, stripped of his title, and eventually exiled from his country. My life belongs to him, in a sense, he lost his entire life, identity and country for a broken monster, it seems only fair. It was his idea to leave France, a fresh start for both of us here in America. I agreed, we set sail for New York, poor man endured all he had for me in Persia only to be saddled with me during the terrible process of morphine withdrawal.” He snorted. “Imagine, that poor man enduring the volatile moods and illness of an opium fiend in the tiny cabin of a ship. When we settled here, I devoted my time to repaying him for all he lost. I vowed to him I would make something of myself.” He strode to stand before her and bent onto one knee, clutching onto her hands in a desperate gesture. “However, my life is no longer Nadir’s, Christine. It is yours, pathetic thing that it is. You are the new keeper of my soul, do with it what you will.”

She stared into his pleading eyes. Here it was, the thing she had wanted, his very guts spilled upon the floor for her unabashed perusal. If he were a sweater, she was the hand pulling the thread and watching him slowly unravel. A part of her felt incredibly guilty for putting him through this ordeal, this revisiting on past trauma and shameful misdeeds, yet she needed to know him in this manner in order to hand herself over to him fully. This man before her was begging for another chance at a different life, to be treated like a real man. He could never truly be ordinary, he was far too interesting, too remarkable for a mundane life, but he could, at the very least, have love like everyone else. 

She reached out fingers, slightly shaking with nerves for the plunge she was about to take, and carefully held his unmasked face in her hands. Gently, she pulled him towards her, and he willingly followed her lead. She fervently whispered over his lips, “I cannot begin to imagine all the trials your life has placed before you, but it is in the past now. I will only accept to keep your soul if you consent to keep mine, but you must be worthy of it. Be a good man, Erik. That is all I ask of you.”

He did not reply, simply groaned and pressed his lips urgently against hers.  
He broke away and cupped her heart shaped face in the palms of his hands. “You have changed me, mon petit canari, you have brought such beauty into my sorry existence. I can never go back.”

She peppered his faces with delicate kisses. “Come.” She whispered. “Let us go be beautiful together.” Rising from the chair with deliberate regality, she grasped one of his hands and pulled him with her.

Her heart was racing as they approached the black door of his bedroom, a symbolic portal to what was to come. For days, they had stood upon this precipice, awaiting the signal to jump and fall into each other. It was upon them now and she was shaking like a leaf, fearful of disappointing, fearful of burning up in the intensity of what she had felt with him in their few physical interactions. She had seen the potency of his desire, barely restrained and awaiting permission to unfurl itself around her.

His hand gripped hers as they stood there before the closed door, he pulled her close and stroked her tender cheek, pressing his cool lips upon her flushed forehead. Their eyes were locked into one another, she could see the silent question there, the hope, the need.

Her hand, shaking with anticipation, reached for the decorative door handle and turned the latch, their portal opened, and they stepped inside.


	24. A Tarnished Offering

** Chapter Twenty-Four: A Tarnished Offering  **

****

Magic demands ruthless discipline. One must practice relentlessly in order to acquire the skills necessary to perform effective, effortless sleight of hand. As a child he would sit in his lonely room, watching his reflection in a mirror he had absconded from his mother’s bedroom. After his first incident with a mirror, he had avoided pointing it towards his face, not after discovering the hideous creature’s face he saw in the reflective surface was his own. Instead he would use the mirror to watch his hands as they made objects appear and disappear out of seemingly thin air. Eventually the magic he performed was more elaborate, more mind-melding than some silly disappearing coins. Now, as he was attempting to light candles about the room, he found his decades of practice as an illusionist going to waste. With how they shook from the excitement coursing through his body, those long hands of his would do a poor job at fooling an audience now. He watched as his pathetic digits struck a match, watched how they had the tell-tale sign of nerves as he placed the flame to the wick of the candle.

The bedroom began to glow in amber as he continued to perform this ritual. It was as though he were preparing an altar, a shrine to display his love upon. He focused his thoughts on the task at hand, continued to draw back upon all his practice to keep his hands steady as he moved from wick to wick, each candle lighting with a hiss.

There came a rustling behind him, the heavy sound of fabric shifting and dropping to the floor. The last candle was at last lit as a second fluttering sound pricked up his sensitive ears. His curiosity too great, he turned towards her to watch with bated breath as she lifted the delicate camisole over her head.

Exquisite. Her lithe body stood before him, adorned in nothing save a dainty pair of lace trimmed drawers. Was it his imagination or did she seem nervous as well? He approached her slowly, as though she were a mirage made of smoke that would vanish if he moved to quickly. Her small fingers moved to the tie on the front of her drawers and, with a wisp of cloth, they were gone, dropped upon the floor like a forgotten memory.

The blood in his ears was thrumming like a war-drum announcing its call for battle. His shameless eyes began to stray from her face, moved along the lines and curves of her nude body. Upon her thigh he noticed a jagged scar which illuminated white under the glow of the flames in the room.

She offered him a kitten smile, suggestive in its connotation and his heart tripped over itself like a drunken sailor. That little nymph was climbing into his bed, her naked form stretching out upon it like a queen mounting her throne.

Finally, he spoke, “I have traveled the world, seen all the beauty a man can see, and yet, it all pales in comparison to you.”

He saw her face give that slight shifting expression of doubt, “There are more beautiful women in the world.” She dismissed.

“No.” He breathed as he approached the bed. “There is only you.”

I occurred to him now he stood before her without a mask and yet she was doubting her own beauty. It would not do. He must show her how divine she is.

Dipping over her, he bestowed long, languished kisses upon her bee’s kiss lips, traced his fingers along the elegant curve of her collarbone. She was responding with small whimpers that were driving him mad with lust, making him nearly dizzy from the feverish intensity of his physical response. The room felt incredibly warm.

Her eyes told him she was waiting for him to join her, desiring to see as much of him as he now saw of her. It was thrilling and intimidating.

She lay there gazing at him, her pupils dilated from arousal, he refused to fall prey to self-consciousness now. There could be no stopping the inevitable, she would soon see the mass of scars he carried upon his body, evidence of past degradation from a time when he was completely powerless. His body was a roadmap of pain. He did not dwell on those days, before he learned the art of self-defense, before he understood how to effectively cut down those who would seek to imprison or abuse him. The battle scars remained, standing as sentinels to remind him never to become helpless again. Yet here he stood, having removed his carapace of vitriol, hostility, and self-denial which had shielded him from further agony. This woman had made him weak in the best possible way, she had always terrified him, perhaps for this very reason.

He made quick work removing his fine tailored suit, shedding it piece by piece like metal armor. This was, in many ways, a second mask for him, another facade he maintained. When it was done, he stood before her, in all his naked glory, a tarnished offering for his golden queen. His body was nothing but sinew and bone, but rather than appear disappointed she seemed content with the sight. _A miracle_ , he thought.

She lifted her hand and gestured with one finger to come hither, a sly smirk on her face. Slave that he was needed no second prompt, he joined her immediately, hovering over her like a ghost, feasting his eyes upon her form stretched out upon the bed like an incubus ready to stake his claim.

This was no fantasy; it would have been impossible for his sorry excuse of an imagination to conjure an image this wondrous. Every detail of her body was pronounced under the glow of the candlelight, every perfection and imperfection, every scar or freckle, every dip and bump on her skin. He wanted to know her as intimately as a cartographer can know a map, to commit the atlas of her to memory, to know the mysteries of her no others could know.

There was a radiant, celestial being lying beneath him, and he would worship her with the reverence she deserved. Lavishing kisses on the bare skin of her torso, he found himself fascinated with the baby fine hairs running down the seam of her belly and fanning out into a triangle of gold curls. Breathing in the natural fragrance of her body, he longed to drown in the heady aroma of her, wanted to taste every part of her.

He felt a violence blooming within him, the urge to tear her apart into small pieces and consume her, wanted to absorb her fully and never let her go. It was maddening this restraint he was forced to employ. Every moment was strained. His long, sinewy muscles tensed and flexed. She was kissing him with such ardor, welcoming him into the cave of her mouth, opening to his tongue’s eager explorations. No fruit had ever tasted so sweet, no drug as intoxicating.

Long fingers trailed along the lush curves of her body, surveying the landscape of her form. He was creating music with her sighs as he touched her along the graceful swell of her breasts, down the valley of her stomach, further still to that heated realm no poetry could rightfully express. When he caressed her there, she cried out and he grinned with unbridled pride. He nibbled her belly with sharp canine teeth as he continued to repeat every movement with his musician’s hands that made her whimper and writhe. _This must be what if feels like to be God_ , He thought.

He sought out her lips again, sucking the breath from her lungs as he kissed her deeply. A perfect drop of sweat formed on her temple, he pressed his mouth against her skin and caught it in his mouth. He would drink her sweat, drink her spit, anything to be closer to her in this moment. He felt he would combust and turn to ash, the fire raging within his body was unbearable, his need to possess her felt like insanity.

They were gazing into one another’s eyes when he finally joined his body with hers. He was certain he would die of pleasure that very moment, melt and become absorbed into the earth. He was a blind man seeing color for the first time, yet they were colors no other human could see, they were for him alone, his private rainbow. Hands were clinging to the skin of his back, catching slightly on those scars, as her hips began to rock him into a steady rhythm, alternating between arching and thrusting. It was a dance so primitive and primal he could not help but fall into step. Their bodies entwined, fitting together like they had been artfully crafted for one another. God, she felt like paradise, surely even the Elysian Fields could not be so lovely, so sacred.

He was losing himself in this, losing himself in her. Suddenly he did not wish to be the consumer, but rather the consumed, to disappear down that lovely pale throat and live within her warm, golden belly forever. Perhaps they could simply implode simultaneously and live in some alternate realm tangled together for all eons to come. They could shine like stars together.

High pitched moans pulled him from his reverie, he became aware of the hand she had snaked between them, touching herself near where they were joined. He had never seen a woman touch herself this way and the effect was so erotic it was entirely too much for him. She sounded wild and saturated with pleasure and it occurred to him that he was aiding in this, he was causing these sounds of bliss. Those hooded, starry blue eyes were rolling away from him towards the back of her head as she quaked around from the power of her rhapsody. 

He fell apart then, the sensations hitting him like an explosive kaleidoscope of light and sound, a violent reaction occurring to his body as he exploded like fire within her. He threw his head heavenward and a melodic, euphoric cry of satisfaction flew from his throat like a caged bird taking flight for the first time.

His body stilled, limbs entangled with hers, breathing labored, his head lay bowed, dark hair falling into his face. They were both covered in a sheen of fine sweat, her body looked divine and shimmering under the amber light. When his eyes met finally hers, she gave him a coquettish grin. He reached his long fingers to cup her face, her eyes heavy-lidded.

“Did I please you?” He breathed with fervor, his wide golden eyes penetrating hers. He was immediately consumed with the insecure feeling that he had failed as a lover. Was he alone in what he had just experienced? Had she reached that same pinnacle of ecstasy?

In response she pulled his face down to hers and kissed him deeply. “I have never felt so whole.” She whispered lowly into his ear.

And then he fell onto the bed, his joy so great that he proceeded to laugh, tears cascading his sunken cheeks.

No emperor had ever received so fair a gift.


	25. Show and Tell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everybody! I just want to check in.  
> We are currently all dealing with a lot, writing has been a blessed escape from the current reality we all find ourselves in. I have been so honored and overwhelmed by all the positive, supportive feedback I have received for this story. I am grateful. 
> 
> I hope you are all safe and healthy. We will all get through this together.

Chapter Twenty-Five: Show and Tell

Like a spider’s willing prey, Christine slowly awoke wrapped in long, spindly limbs. Her eyes, still blurry, fixed on a candle, the wick nearly burned to its end, wax pooling all over the surface of the well-crafted nightstand it sat upon. As the fog slowly cleared from her head, she recalled the prior evening’s events. Erik proved to be insatiable, perhaps her as well, for they woke repeatedly and continued their delightful, carnal dance. Her face was now pressed upon the hard plane of his chest, his sternum palpable through his skin, pressed firmly against her cheek. As wakefulness crept upon her, she was suddenly aware of the pool of her own saliva her face was nestled in. She had been drooling all over Erik. This abrupt realization woke her fully with a start, causing her to throw her body up into a sitting position. Perhaps she could quietly remove the embarrassing evidence of her sleep that had now pooled all over his chest before he awoke.

She was mortified when she then noticed the two incandescent eyes gazing at her, his mouth tilted up at the corner with amusement. Her hands flew over her face to cover her immediate humiliation, he peeled her fingers away from her face and tenderly wiped away the remaining drool lingering on her cheek.

“I’ll fetch a handkerchief.” She muttered, rolling over in the bed to make a quick escape from the room but he clutched her wrist and pulled her backward. 

“You will do no such thing.” He commanded. “I have never had a woman drool on me before. I find I do not wish to destroy the experience prematurely.” He pulled her back into the narrow nook of his arm. The long, slender finger of his other hand slowly traced the jagged scar on the fleshy part of her visible thigh, reverently, as though tracing the outline of a beloved river on a map. “What is the origin of this mark?” He softly asked. Pressed against his body she could feel the resonance of his intoxicating voice penetrating her bones, lulling her into a delicious sense of security.

“It is very unsightly.” She moved to cover it, but he refused her the opportunity, batting her hand away.

“I find it beautiful, for it is a part of you.” He stated simply. 

“If I tell you about my scar, will you permit me to ask about yours?” She boldly replied.

He tsked her. “My little negotiator.” He purred. “I doubt you will enjoy my stories, mon petit canari.” His finger continued to lovingly stroke the rough surface of her long scar. “However, I find it difficult to refuse you.”

Satisfied with this answer she began to speak. “My father and I had been traveling from town to town throughout Europe. We followed fairs and circuses, sometimes he would obtain short term employment in one of the bands, sometimes we would stand on the outskirts of the events and busk. One time, when I was thirteen, we were traveling with a fair and young boy, a juggler, had a bicycle. I had never attempted to ride one before. He asked if I would like to learn to ride.” She looked down at the scar on her thigh, a slight scowl forming on her face at the memory. “I fell a number of times before I got the hang of it, but once I understood how to keep from falling over, I was just delighted. Perhaps I became too confident in my new abilities, because I began to race down this rough dirt road. It happened too quickly to know for certain, but I believe the tire hit a jutting rock and I was thrust over the handlebars like a ragdoll. I landed into an old iron fence along the road. My leg was cut into with a broken, rusted bit of metal from the fence.” 

“Did you not see a doctor? It appears to have healed poorly.” Erik asked.

“My father did his best to patch me up and clean the wound. You must understand, we had very little money. When it became infected, that’s when my father called for a doctor.” She sighed and nestled further into the nook of his arm. “The infection became so great they felt it necessary to amputate. I refused; I think I did not understand how serious it was at the time.” She closed her eyes at the memory. “I became so dreadfully ill, blood poisoning, the doctor said.” Her voice dropped lower. “I nearly died; my fever became too high, my body too weak. The only thing keeping me on this earth was the music. My father played his violin over me day in and day out, I don’t believe he had any sleep during those long several days.”

Erik’s hand had stopped its up and down journey along the surface of the scar. “Music has saved my life and sanity many times over. I find I am greatly upset to hear this story; I do not enjoy imagining you lying in bed, close to your demise.” She could hear his voice carrying the traces of fear and despair, her memory troubled him.

She looked up at him, his face was the most terrible thing she had ever seen, yet the most beautiful all the same. It held a strange appeal for her. She found beauty in that grotesque, morbid visage. From her position she could see within the gaping hole in his head where his nose ought to have been. Does it ever pain him? she wondered. The black hair on his head was mused, giving him a boyish quality. Never had she seen him appear so relaxed. Her comfortable, foreboding Näcken. 

“How did you get these?” She draped her arm over his chest and drew a lazy finger down the length the long, thick rope-like scars on his chest, the bulk of which consumed the breadth of his back, resembling the curling vines of an ivy growing beneath his skin.

He gave a tired sighed, as though the memory alone was consuming far too much of his energy. “I was an uncooperative little attraction, a stubborn little skeleton.” He said with bile. “They were required to use a bullwhip to keep me in line. One cannot have a living corpse who will not show his face.” He clucked his tongue. “No, that simply would not do.”

“You said you killed to escape.” He had always given her breadcrumbs to his past, little tidbits which always failed to satisfy and served to pique her ravenous curiosity. Until the previous evening, he had never fully opened to her. 

He nodded. “After several years with the gypsies living in captivity, once I was a bit stronger. I was finally done living in a cage, presenting my face to the ignorant public for the gain of others, being treated like something inhuman. When I had the opportunity, I disemboweled my captor and ran.”

The admission chilled her, yet she found the crimes committed against him so much greater than his fierce act to ensure his freedom. “You truly lived in a cage that whole time?”

His chilled fingers were running down her bare arm now, giving her pleasant gooseflesh. “Whether literal or metaphorical, I have always lived within a cage. I am unable to walk freely as other men do without consequence. I will never truly be untethered from my chains.”

She gave him a penetrating stare, her heart wrapping itself around him. “I want to share your cage, Erik.” 

His lips turned up into a faint smile. “No. You will never be caged, mon petite canari. I will not allow that, despite my desire to hide you away from the world forever, I am a jealous man, you see.” He said the words with levity, but she knew he was speaking truth.

Her gaze lingered on a prominent a bump connected to the outline of one of his ribs, his skeleton could practically be seen through his skin. He was remarkably thin. “What is this?” She asked, while tentatively touching the protrusion. 

“That story is less depressing.” He commented. “It was a broken rib. I was struck by falling masonry while working on an architectural project in Italy. I refused to remain lying about, I do not do well with idleness, and it was not permitted to heal.”

“You were a mason?” She asked with interest.

“Among many other things.” He replied with a lazy drawl, yet she could did not miss the hint of pride she heard there. Masonry, it seemed, was a source of joy for this man. 

“You continued to work with a broken rib? I cannot imagine how painful that must have been.”

“I am accustomed to pain.” He said simply. “I am, however, unaccustomed to unproductivity.”

“How old were you?” She asked.

“Fifteen, I believe.” He said with reluctance. “It is hard to know one’s age when one knows not their own birthday.” 

Her heart skidded to a halt. “You truly do not know your own birthday?” She asked with despair.  
“I do not.” He said with the absence of emotion. “Nor would I care to celebrate it.” 

“I never celebrate my birthday, either.” Christine murmured. She felt Erik clutch her tighter.

“Why?” He demanded. “Your birth is great cause for celebration.” 

“Both my parents died on the date of my birth.” She felt the pinprick of tears at the corner of her eyes and fought them away. “It would be like celebrating their deaths as well, I cannot bear it.”

He spoke in a soothingly tone. “To celebrate your birth is to celebrate your parents, Christine. They would be honored by it.”

“I never considered it that way.” She shrugged, then glanced back up towards his face. “I would like you to celebrate with me then. You shall share my birthday.”

He hummed and drummed his fingers upon her hip. “If you insist, my dear. I will refuse you nothing.”

Her fingers skirted to another scar on the soft dip of his belly where a darker purple gash lay, slightly puckered in appearance. If a scar could appear angry, this one certainly did. “What of this one?” She whispered. 

He gave a soft, annoyed snort. “I was somewhat taken by surprise; someone plunged a dagger into me. I was actually quite impressed they were able to catch me unawares. Persia was full of men at court eager to end my life. However, this was not nearly as painful as the time I was poisoned.” He gave a light chuckle, causing Christine to furrow her brows, confused by his mirth for something so dark. “Nadir acted the part of the nurse; he has the most atrocious bedside manner.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “Although, I am certain if you ask him, he will say I was a cantankerous patient who made his work difficult.”

“You’ve lived such a dangerous life. I feel…perhaps, it is one of the things which draws me to you, why do you think that is?” She had known for some time she was helpless to resist being pulled into the orbit of this lethal, enigmatic man. Earlier on, she had assumed it was simply the mystery of the mask or the draw of his syrupy voice which intrigued her, yet now she knew that was all farce. There was something deeper happening, for as she slowly revealed layer upon layer of who he was and had been, she found herself sunk deeper in the tar of his allure. She would never be free of the clutches of this connection they now shared.

“Perhaps you are drawn to my darkness for the same reason I am drawn to your light.” He crooned as he ran spidery fingers through her hair. 

“What reason is that, do you think?” She continued to stare at the mass of scars on his body, the physical proof of a horrific past. 

“Balance.” He replied softly, caressing her bare arm with the tips of his thin fingers. “You represent the things I have always desired, yet believed I could never have, nor deserve. Perhaps I represent those things for you as well.” His voiced darkened and he purred. “Tell me, do you have darker urges, Christine?” His fingers raked across the soft skin of her back, causing her to suck a breath in.

“Perhaps,” She softly mused, heat blooming her body. “I have never felt this way before. You thrill me and move me in ways I never knew possible. I feel truly alive in your presence.” They sat in silence for several moments, basking in the strange energy they seemed to be creating together. “It does pain me to hear of all you’ve endured, how did you manage to survive all this time?” She nearly whispered while tracing a ring around the scar on his stomach with the tip of her nail.

“It is all inconsequential now. I would endure it again repeatedly if I knew it led me to you. I survived to find you, my dear.” His tone was casual, but the words seared her as though he had just branded her soul with a red-hot iron.

She pulled herself up and bent over to gently kiss the scars on his chest, her mouth making featherlight journey to the healed knife wound. When she made it there, lavishing soft kisses upon his belly she was surprised by his abrupt snort and a tightening of his abdominal muscles.  
Her eyes shot up with mischievous glee. 

“Are you ticklish?” She questioned darkly, a playful, sinister smirk lighting her features.

He furrowed his brows, his lips turning down in a scowl and he responded, “Absolutely not.”

“Oh.” She nodded. “So, if I do this.” She positioned her hands like claws over his ribs, “You will not feel anything.”

There was no time to think, for in a flash of motion and rustling fabric she was on her back, pinioned by Erik who now tightly held her hands high above her head onto the bed. 

“Perhaps just a little.” He darkly spoke into the shell of her ear. His breath fanning her neck threateningly. Erik kissed her neck with passion, causing her to giggle. “I notice you are as well.” He continued to nibble on her as she kicked her legs, helpless to stop him.

“You are so strong.” She breathed between fits of bell-like laughter. The potent effects he had on her were overwhelming. He merely hummed in response.

The ringing of a telephone screamed through the house. Erik sighed in exasperation. 

“I told you he delights in ruining my life.” He whispered, then tugged on her earlobe once with his teeth before releasing her hands.

“How are you certain it’s Nadir?” 

“That phone is for him alone. Looking back now, I must have been a fool to have installed it.” He grumbled like a curmudgeon as she alighted from the bed, snuffing out the candles fluidly and lighting a floor lamp in their stead. Striding naked to the wardrobe with all the confidence of a king, Christine could not help but stare, wide eyed, as he withdrew a silk robe from the confines of the closet. Despite his unusual thinness, his paleness, and the marks which marred his body, he was a magnificent sight. He moved with the grace and lightness of a seasoned dancer, with all the elegance of a stalking cat. So strange, one so tall and lanky could move with such economic fluidity. His face and body gave him the appearance of a being straight from the books of an ancient fable.

He made quick word draping himself in the sleek, black fabric of the robe before withdrawing a second from the closet. The sharp ringing of the phone came to a still, silence descending upon them once more. 

“Come here, Christine.” He kindly commanded, eyeing her with gentle seriousness. 

She stretched like a cat upon the bed before obeying his will. The yellow rings of his irises glowed as she approached, their gaze traveling the length of her slim frame with appreciation. He began to drape her in the second robe, working to roll up the long sleeves with ease. 

“I must admit,” He said. “I wished to purchase a robe for you yet scorned myself for having overt wishful thinking.” He tied the sash and allowed his hands to run to the curves of her figure in the decadent fabric. “Although, I find it pleasing to see you in mine.” 

The phone began to ring again. 

“He is relentless!” Erik barked as he exited the room to answer the phone. Christine searched the room for a mirror to check herself, yet there were none to be found. His bathing suite was lacking in a reflective surface as well. Certain she knew why; she made a mental note to bring a compact with her in the future. The future, she thought, is that what happens next? What does happen, now that we have crossed this precipice? 

As she made her way towards the sitting room, Erik’s agitation filled voice drifted through the hall, speaking in a foreign tongue she did not understand. The call was brief, he was placing the receiver upon its cradle as she entered the room. She watched as he calmly moved towards the piano in the corner of the room, turning towards her as he sat upon the bench and motioned for her to join him. 

The fallboard was lifted to reveal a long row of ivory and black keys, like the glistening teeth of a whale, each seemed to represent all the possibilities music could offer. When he began to play, Christine forgot the world. His hands moved so rapidly, she was certain this was merely another of his magic tricks, but there was no denying the glory of the sounds he emitted from that piano. She had only had the privilege of hearing him play once, in the museum, it was the closest thing to a religious experience she would ever have. 

His lean body swayed slightly with the music as he played, his eyes were closed, his face was emitting the expression of love. He was weaving a finely detailed tapestry with sound, telling a story. She could hear him offering her is heart on a silver platter for her to feast upon like a mad queen. As the notes rose into the air and fell around them like the delicate petals of cherry blossoms, Christine found herself opening her mouth and joining in song. There were no words, only vocalizing, and she was startled at how well the two mingled together in the air. Her voice nearly sounded like someone else’s, it frightened her. Somehow this man was capable of pulling things from her she never knew she had within. 

When the rhapsodic spell reached its conclusion, they sat in silent awe. Eventually Erik turned towards her and reached to hold her hands in his. He bowed his head reverently and slowly spoke.

“Christine, I need to tell you something. I fear to, but I must all the same.” His golden eyes lifted and fiercely penetrated hers. 

She nodded, eager to hear, yet her stomach was beginning to twist like snakes in a barrel. 

“I need to leave for a few more days, possibly a week.” He said morosely.

“Where will you be going?” She asked sadly. “Will it be dangerous?” 

He released her hands and walked to his desk where he retrieved a book from within a drawer. When he presented it to her, she was terribly confused. 

“I retrieved that journal from Regina’s home, Christine. She was also murdered, most likely by the same men who killed Keenan.” 

She opened the book with shaking fingers to a marked page and took in a sharp breath when she saw her first and last name written upon the page, with small details about her employment at The Gilded Cage and a small comment about a possible friendship with the employer. Her eyes met Erik’s. “What does this mean?” She asked, she felt lost.

He rejoined her upon the bench of the piano and cradled her face in his large hands. “It means I may be required to kill again, Christine.”

“Why?” She whispered.

“Because it appears the tale of The Shade may indeed have validity and I cannot be sure of how much information such an individual may have on you. We must also consider Arthur; he too is at risk.” He kissed her forehead and ran his fingers through her curls. “This is my doing and I must fix it, I have placed you in danger by proxy.”

She shook her head. “No, I would not change it for the world, I am here with you now.” She looked past him, distantly. She thought for a minute before finally speaking. “If you kill this person, will it be over?” She whispered, hardly believing the words that were coming out of her mouth. She felt like a queen who was sending her knight on a war crusade. Was she truly encouraging this? 

“I believe so.” He said with confidence. “I must perform some scouting expeditions, some personal investigations to determine whether I can find this individual. I do not expect violence on this trip, but it will come, Christine.”

They stared into each other’s eyes, as the world dissolved around them, it was only the two of them in that moment. He was all she wanted. She brought her eyes close to his and fervently whispered. “Do it. But don’t you dare die.”

Their lips met with a ferocity they had not expected, as though they may not see one another again. She knew it was only a few days, but the thought of being separated for any time was suddenly unbearable. Strange how quickly things change. Desperately, she pulled his body off the bench and onto the floor.

For the remainder of their morning they learned exactly how plush that Persian carpet truly was.


	26. Tar Heart

** Chapter Twenty-Six: Tar Heart **

****

The conversation was exceptionally boring. Erik nearly rolled his eyes at the inane, unintelligible nature of the thing. Tucked away in a dark nook at 4 am, he had been listening to a group of runners blathering away about money, women and sports for the past hour. _Humanity is a fucking nightmare,_ He thought to himself.

He was required to consistently remind himself why he was subjecting his person to this level of torture, why it was necessary he quietly remain where he hid on this dock along the Hudson River, while the three men rambled like shallow imbeciles as they moved barrels from a docked boat. If the knowledge he had gleamed from Regina’s journal and corresponding police reports was sound, these idiot men worked for a competing operation, one which had been subjected to murders similar to those committed against his own enterprise.

Bizarre, there had been a time when murder and death did not concern him in the slightest. Death was a friend, a constant companion whom he could always rely on. His heart had been an engine of hate, full of vitriol and venom, thick like tar. Roaming the earth like nothing more than a dark wraith, he observed mankind with contempt and supreme superiority.

Until a few months ago, the entire city could have burned to the ground with all its inhabitants in it and Erik would have simply shrugged and walk away…then Christine happened. His soul had become a crumbling, corroded thing before her light pierced him like a blade, renewing him from the inside out. The world he saw was through her eyes now. She was a tigress, clutching his bleeding, black heart in her claws. She consumed him entirely, licking him clean off her glorious whiskers. This love he carried for her was excruciating, like acid it ate into every part of him, transfiguring him irrevocably. How strange, to live as such a contemptuous creature only to become transformed so violently by a goddess such as she.

If he suddenly felt anything but disgust for the human race, it was because she had shown him there was still beauty and light remaining in its cesspool of a populace. The world had crafted and perfected a being such as she, therefore it could not be entirely without some redeeming qualities. Though he was not certain if he would ever truly be capable of being a ‘good’ man, he could at the very least strive to be better for her. While the depravity of his past made him thoroughly undeserving of her love, he was indeed a selfish man who would take what he could when offered like a hungry beggar. He was ravenous for her, gobbling up every glance, every touch, every sigh like it would be his last.

Ever careful to keep his eyes hidden below the brim of his hat else their glow betray him, Erik observed the three men as they loaded barrel after barrel of rum into the back of a truck that had been modified to resemble a tall pile of stacked lumber. _Clever,_ He thought. Hidden in plain sight was his specialty and even he could be impressed with how innocuous the truck appeared, it would have no problem driving down the street without issue. No pedestrian would be capable of discerning it for the smuggling operation it was.

Erik had been aware of these rum runners for some time, yet hardly considered them competition. The product they pushed was often bootleg liquor, sometimes it was passable, other times it could rot a man’s gut from the inside out and cause a wicked, grotesque death. They worked for a Sicilian mafia boss who controlled this shipping port, along the river at the base of Manhattan Island. The mafia failed to impress him. A gang is a gang, regardless of what label you place on it, regardless of how well-organized, how well-connected. The only thing that interested him regarding these fools, was the silent enemy they now had in common.

The men finished loading the barrels into the door of the truck, then secured the hatch, completing the illusion of the pile of lumber. _Time to move._ He quickly made his way towards the inconspicuous vehicle he kept parked on the only road exiting the dock, an unimpressive black automobile he kept on retainer for moments such as this. One cannot drive around in a Rolls Royce without drawing some attention to one’s self.

Inside the cab of his incognito vehicle, he waited until the runner’s truck drove past him before starting the ignition. He followed behind them at a distance that would avoid suspicion, allowing them to lead him through the heart of the city towards the east side. It did not surprise him they were traveling to lower Manhattan; he had heard where they conducted most of their business meetings, he knew they distributed to this club in particular. The sun was still below the horizon, the sky remained dark.

Deliveries of illicit alcohol typically took place shortly before dawn, when the speakeasies were empty, and the streets were quiet. Much like bakers, runners typically worked through the night and ended once the sun rose.

A block ahead, Erik noticed the truck turning down Delancey street and then directly into an alley. They were heading to the location he had suspected. He knew of the bar behind Ratner’s Dairy for some time, it was incredibly popular and pretty well protected from the authorities. It had been created by the Jewish immigrant, many called him “the mob’s accountant” along with “Lucky” Luciano and “Bugsy” Seigel. The Prohibition enforcement failed to take it down because the power the three men held was immense, they were impeccably well-connected.

He parked a block away and quietly exited the car. If he was going to witness the way the men accessed their back entrance, he would need to be extra cautious

Two of the men stayed with their truck full of contraband while the third made his way to a back door behind Ratner’s Dairy. The building at 138 Delancey Street stood on a network of tunnels and alleys which connected it to neighboring buildings, an ideal location for a speakeasy. Erik was rather impressed, although only mildly. Once he saw how flimsy their secret back entrance was, he nearly scoffed out loud.

He patiently watched as the man entered the secret entrance and came out moments later to return to the truck waiting around the corner.

This was his cue; he was going into the lion’s den.

With his lasso tucked securely inside the sleeve of his jacket, ready for the first sign of violence, he made his way towards the back entrance like a ghost. A grin lit up his face when he pressed on the terribly conspicuous ‘secret latch’ for their hidden back entrance. Perhaps he ought to offer them some pointers on creating truly incognito passageways…

The thick odor of stale booze and tobacco smoke hit his senses the moment he revealed the narrow passage, a concrete hallway with poorly wallpapered walls, illuminated by a single pathetic lightbulb which flickered and buzzed. His sensitive ears picked up the low, vibrating murmur of men’s voices, muffled by some kind of obstruction. Allowing the garbled sound to lead the way, he slipped down the hallway like the phantom he was. A door at the end of the hallway was opened to reveal the interior of the bar. Similar to the Gilded Cage, the colors were a combination of rich reds and golds, the embossed wallpaper a deep wine color. Not an unattractive place in the slightest. The bar was well crafted, a fireplace gave it a cozy quality, the tin ceiling added a certain level of charm, and chandeliers hung about the space. Erik had to admit it was actually quite well put together, not as upscale as his club, but nice enough.

Adjacent to the bar, located on the other side of the venue, were a truncated set of stairs leading to a raised loft of a room. The voices were coming from that direction. Floating like a dark cloud up to loft, he saw a tall, narrow bookcase full of books next to a lounge chair. Could they have made it any more obvious? It was hardly original, turning a bookcase into a door. If it were him, he would have made use of a mirror instead. It would have suited the aesthetic of the room a bit better.

His thin, expert hands ran along the seams of the entryway, until he felt the tell-tale shape of a metal switch. They had done a better job at securing this door than their outside entry, someone less astute would have difficulty accessing it.

Every muscle in his body tensed, vibrating with the instinctual response of a man ready to enter battle, yet his heart kept an even pace. The thrill of the fight no longer excited him, only Christine could set his heart racing now.

Lasso at the ready, with a sharp, metallic clack the switch released beneath his fingertips and the door swung inward.

There was no time for processing the scene, as the four men who sat around the table smoking cigars bolted out of their chairs, staggering to their feet. One man withdrew a gun from his pocket but was stunned as it was whipped out of his hand by an invisible force before he had the opportunity to raise it. The gun went from the lasso and into Erik’s awaiting grip in less time than it took to blink.

He watched with guarded amusement as the four men comprehended what had just happened. Two of the men raised their hands reluctantly.

“Who the fuck are you?” Demanded a man who obstinately refused to cower, folding his arms over his chest instead. Erik knew who this man was, had heard the stories of his deeds. His defiant reaction did not surprise Erik, this was his bar, after all.

“That is unnecessary information.” Erik replied smoothly.

“The hell it is!” Roared the man. “Are you that fuck that’s been killing my men? What’s with the fucking mask?”

“Calm down, Luciano. It is terrible for your health.” Erik smirked, his words flowing calming through the air like threatening silk. “I am not here to kill anyone, not unless they force me to. Now please, sit and let us speak like civilized people.”

Luciano nodded at the three men who shakily sat into their chairs. Erik could tell he was attempting to maintain his calm, despite the shock of having a masked stranger break into his establishment and aim a gun in his direction.

“I would advise you all to not make any sudden movements, else you wish to have your head dislodged from your neck.” Erik warned warmly in a sing-song voice. Over the years he found threats to be more terrifying when delivered with a saccharine sweet tone. He waited until the four men had seated before continuing. “We have a common foe.” He stated plainly while snapping his fingers to punctuate his seriousness. “I need you to tell me everything you know about the Shade.”

Luciano snorted. “First you tell me how you did that fucking trick with the gun.”

“I wouldn’t know what trick you are referring to, your man handed me his gun.” He gave a sly, cocky smile. “Come now, I do not have all morning.”

“I thought you were him.” Luciano admitted. “The fucker has been killing off my men like flies. We’ve lost a dozen runners, a handful of bootleggers and at least two of our protections.”

“Joe Stromberg?” Erik asked.

“How did you…”

“I would appear we have been paying the same prohibition authority.” Erik had always been perplexed by the location of the bodies of the first three men connected to his operation. They had been left a few blocks from the Opera, but now he was beginning to think that placement was a coincidence. Runners were notorious for crossing lines and working for other organizations. It was not unlikely those first three murders were aimed at “Lucky” Luciano. The pieces of the puzzle fit nicely, like a neat bow on a package.

“So, if you ain’t here to kill anyone, what’s with the fucking mask?”

Erik elegantly shrugged. "I am too handsome for the general public to handle." 

Luciano broke into fits of laughter, pounding a fist on the table in glee. "I love this guy!" He told his men then looked at Erik. "You got one of those faces only a mother could love, huh?" 

Erik shrugged again, then casualty retorted. "As you will learn, I can be quite unlovable when provoked." He snapped his fingers, tired of the tangents. "What do you know about the man who has been killing off your runners?"

Charles “Lucky” Luciano relit his cigar and took a few heavy pulls from it. His handsome, olive complected face deep in contemplation as he stared at Erik. He passed a hand through his oiled, wavy black hair. “The stories say he’s sort of a religious nut. Got a real problem with folks having a good time, drinking, drugs…you know. He’s got some crazy followers who will do just about anything for him, I think that includes killin’.” Luciano took a large puff of his cigar before lifting his glass of liquor and taking a swig. “My operation is large enough that it hasn’t kept profits from coming in, but the guy has been a real pain in my ass. He’s really interfered with my booze and Heroin suppliers. Plus, he murdered a real good friend of mine. I’d love to see the guy disappear; you know what I’m saying? The more painful his death the better, I’d like to string him up and gut him like a pig.”

“Perhaps that can be arranged.” Erik replied coldly while lowering the gun, confident with the stability of the situation. “Do these stories say anything regarding where he may have come from? Every villain has an origin story.”

Luciano stared at Erik. “That’s some set of pipes you’ve got on you. Never heard a voice like yours before.”

Erik was growing tired of the side conversation.

“Brooklyn.” One of the other, more nervous men piped up. “I know a guy who says he first heard of the Shade when a slew of underground distillery’s was being burned to the ground a year ago. People started finding ‘Boo’ painted in white on the ground in front of the burnt-out buildings. Folks said it was a local gang which was doin’ the work, busting competition, but my friend says it had to be the Shade.”

“Brooklyn.” Erik mused. He was a bit disappointed with the lack of information he was receiving from this encounter, but it was certainly better than nothing.

“We could certainly use a man with such singular skills as yourself.” Luciano smirked with a raised eyebrow, taking another sip of his booze. “I’d love to shoot you in the foot for showing up the way you have, I’m not fond of having a gun pointing in my face, real disrespectful, but someone like you could prove to be very handy for someone like me.”

“I work for no man.” Erik sneered. With a flourish, and a puff of smoke, a piece of paper folded into the shape of a star appeared between his pointer finger and thumb. The eyes of Luciano and his men lit up like excited children at the simple feat of magic. Erik flicked his fingers and the star floated gracefully through the air, spinning as it hovered above the table before gently falling before Lucky. “You will find a number with which you may call if you have any new information about our new friend, the Shade.”

“We don’t get to know your name?” Luciano demanded.

Erik ignored him, tipping his head in farewell instead. “Until later gentleman.” And with that, he swiftly vacated the room, like a fleeting memory. Leaving the four men at a loss for words.

He heard one of the men loudly blurt out. “What the fuck just happened? Who was that asshole?”

When he exited the building, he as glad to see it was still dark, the sun was still threatening to rise, brightening the sky a bit. I had only been two days since he last saw Christine and he was feeling like he was going through withdrawals from her. It was impossible for him to do what he needed to do when she was in his presence, she was a beautiful distraction, one that he would gladly drown in. This time apart was necessary for him to stay focused. Over the past few days he had snuck into police departments, raided files, eavesdropped on runners and bootleggers and still had few answers. This whole ordeal was infuriating.

He needed to see her, if only for a moment.

Twenty minutes later he was standing over her bed, like an evil specter come to claim his bride. Her lashes fluttered, her lips slightly parted as her life’s breath moved in and out of her lungs slowly. She was dreaming, he knew by the movement behind her lids. _Does she dream of me?_ He wistfully wondered. The heart that beat only for her was tumbling inside his chest, filled with the pangs of longing.

He bent over and gently kissed the crown of her head.

The sky was growing light, he needed to go. Tearing his eyes away from her sleeping form was torturous, but he needed a few more days.

Slipping out of the apartment, he felt a small sense of comfort knowing when she woke, she would know he was there.

He could not help himself, he had to leave her a sign.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason I found this chapter really difficult to write. I was trying to balance introspection with action….hopefully you all enjoy it. 
> 
> I really wanted Erik to meet to mafia and be totally unimpressed. (As I imagine he would be.)
> 
> Charles “Lucky” Luciano was a real person. (Born Salvatore Luciana). He did in fact own the speakeasy behind Ratner’s which was simply called “The back of Ratner’s”. If you visit New York, you can still get a drink there. It goes by the name ‘The Back Room’ and it is one of two remaining speakeasies remaining from the Prohibition in Manhattan. Located at 101 Norfolk.  
> There really was a secret room behind a bookcase too!  
> Photos of the Speakeasy are easy to find online and highly recommended.
> 
> The truck that was made to look like a pile of lumber can also be found. Google “Prohibition Lumber Truck”. It is amazing!
> 
> Thank you so much to my regular reviewers, I honestly don’t think I would have continued to be inspired without you. You’re feedback keeps me going.
> 
> Stay safe!


	27. Black Rabbit

** Chapter 27: Black Rabbit **

It was resting upon the pillow next to her head. As her eyes fluttered open to greet the day, she was startled to see a very large moth staring back at her. Bolting upright into bed, the little creature toppled over onto its side. A surprised laugh escaped her throat, still tight from sleep as she picked up the delicate thing with the tips of her fingers, fearful she would crush it. The winged insect was not alive, and it was no moth, although the white color gave it that appearance. It was a butterfly, intricately folded from a single sheet of thin, shimmery paper.

Christine had never seen a paper object appear so lifelike. From the wings, to the body, to the fragile legs and antennae, every detail was precise and exacting. She did not have to wonder who its maker was, but she felt a deep pang knowing he was in her presence without waking her. Somehow, she had known he never left town completely over the past few days, the city did not feel empty the way she knew it would feel without him.

As she tenderly stroked the wings of the little paper masterpiece, she failed to register the movement in the corner of her eye.

“What’s that?” Meg asked in a voice far too perky for the early morning.

Christine tried to think quickly, she did not want Meg to know of the terrifying masked man who was most likely lingering in their bedroom as the two women lay helplessly sleeping in their beds. “Just a trinket I picked up, it somehow got into my bed. Perhaps I did not see it by my pillow…”

Meg seemed oblivious to the poor explanation, instead clambering out of her bed to see the little work of art. “Wow. That’s incredible. How one earth did someone make such a thing? It looks like it will spring to life at any moment.” She tentatively touched the wing of the thing with the very tip of her index finger as though to check whether it was alive. “You’re lucky you didn’t crush it in your sleep, Christine!”

Christine hummed while wistfully stroking the paper insect.

Meg exited her bed and moved to her closet to retrieve her robe, pausing half-way to her destination. Turning back to Christine she said, “They’re having auditions for the chorus at the Opera next week. You really should consider it. You have this extended vacation from your job, you may as well take the opportunity. Who knows? You could get placed.” She reached into her closet and withdrew her robe.

Christine nodded in consideration.

Meg was under the impression Christine was taking time away from The Gilded Cage while the club completed some slight renovations. Antoinette had decided it was best that Meg know as little as possible about Erik, and most especially about Keenan’s murder. The phrase ‘loose lips sink ships’ was practically written to suit Meg Giry, who leaked secrets like a sieve.

Meg was never the most well-informed woman. Unless it had spread by word of mouth, she rarely knew the happenings in the news. Christine had never seen the girl with a book in her hand, let alone a newspaper. ‘ _Why would I read a book, when I can simply go see a moving picture? They’re making talking ones soon, so you won’t even need to read the dialogue!’_ ,Meg had told her. The likelihood of Meg coming to know about the connection of a murder with the club was slim at best.

“I will consider it, Meg. Thank you.” Christine rose from her bed, still heavy limbed from sleep. And placed the lifelike butterfly upon the window sill by her bed. Its iridescent wings shining bright in the early morning sunlight.

As the women made their way to the breakfast table, Meg asked Christine what she had planned for the day.

“I have no real plans for the daytime, but my friend Arthur wishes to take me out in the evening.” Christine said joyfully as she sat at the table.

“A man? Are you dating someone?” Meg’s asked with a wicked grin, as though biting into a most juicy bit of gossip like a thick steak.

Christine nearly choked on her hot cup of coffee as she fought a sudden burst of giggles at the image of her imaginary courtship with Arthur.

“Not in the slightest, Meg. Men and women can have platonic friendships. I do hope you realize this.” Christine playfully chided her friend.

Meg huffed. “Well I wasn’t sure. There have been nights you have not come home…You’ve been awfully secretive.” Meg drawled suspiciously as she slowly slathered a biscuit with some jam.

“Meg.” Antoinette’s firm voice came strongly from the kitchen. “Please stop badgering Christine.”

Meg rolled her eyes like a juvenile. Sometimes it was hard for Christine to remember Meg was only a few years younger than herself.

Christine knew she was only going to invite more questions, but felt guilty hiding her relationship. “I’m seeing my employer.” She blurted as her eyes dropped down to the hot, black liquid in her coffee cup.

Meg looked nearly scandalized. “Does that feel somewhat improper?”

Christine gave Meg an indignant look. “Hardly.” She replied. “We care for one another and he is good to me.” She shook her head, a light blush on her cheeks. “Besides, why is all this attention on me? When is the last time _you_ dated a man?”

Meg sighed. “Mother never approves of the men I wish to date.” She replied, her voice holding a bitter bite.

Antoinette emerged from the kitchen. “Only because the ‘men’ you find interesting are nothing more than boys who need employment” The older woman said as she joined them at the table. “That last one, for instance. What was his name? Robert, Roger…”

“Randolph, and he had a position, mother. He was self-employed.” Meg straightened her posture, visibly affronted.

“He drove a taxi-cab, Meg.” Antoinette said with an irritated sighed. “The one before that was a dishwasher.”

“They were adorable, though. Genuine dreamboats.” Meg blew out a frustrated breath of air as she pushed her last remaining bite of her biscuit around on her plate. Without looking up at Christine she curiously asked, “Is your beau handsome, Christine?”

Christine’s eyes met Antoinette’s. The older woman had her eyebrows raised in curious anticipation.

“His looks are one of a kind.” Christine frankly replied. “Some may not think it, but he’s quite beautiful.”

“Well I simply cannot wait to meet this secret of yours.” Meg said, a small tinge of jealousy lining her words. Standing up from the table, her biscuit left unfinished, Meg announced she was going to ready for the day and left abruptly down the hallway towards their bedroom.

Christine waited for the sound of the bedroom door closing at the end of the hall before she met eyes with Antionette who carried a tense expression on her face.

“I do not enjoy keeping her in the dark.” Christine lamented quietly as she stared at her cooling cup of half-finished coffee.

“It is for the best.” Antoinette half-whispered back. Her fingers began to tap on the table, Christine could recognize, based on the older woman’s expression, there was more to be said. Antoinette’s gears were turning, she appeared anxious.

Finally she said lowly, “I was somewhat surprised that my warnings of Erik held no merit.”

Christine nervously played with the corner of her napkin, twisting it and untwisting it. She found it suddenly impossible to meet the woman’s concerned expression.

“I love him, Madame.” Christine replied with gentle conviction, though there was the phantom bubble of guilt brewing in her belly. She knew Antoinette was merely doing what a good mother would do. If she were Meg, her relationship with Erik would have been squashed before it had even began. A small part of her felt like she was disappointing a concerned parent, but that feeling was not strong enough to sever the impossible bond she now had with her imposing, masked suitor. “I believe this is more than simply dating. It feels rather like courtship.”

Antoinette paused the stirring of her creamed coffee. “That is indeed serious, Christine. Although not at all surprising.” She placed her spoon upon the table and leaned back in her chair. “The morning after the first night you failed to come home, he and I had spoken on the telephone…he made it quite clear his intent was serious.” She lifted the coffee to her lips and took a small sip. “You know my feelings on the matter, but I see no point in attempting to talk you out of such a choice in partner.” She set the cup down and reached her hands out to grasp onto Christine’s. “I just want what it best for you.”

Christine gave Antoinette a comforting smile. “I love you, Madame. “ She squeezed the older woman’s hands in a loving gesture. “Erik, is far from perfect, but he treats me like a queen.”

Antoinette seemed somewhat relieved by this confession. “Good. Never settle for a man who treats you as anything less than the royalty that you are.”

The sound of Meg emerging from the bedroom down the hall brought their conversation to a close, although the two women seemed to be mutually at ease with where it had left off. For a ballerina, Meg was not a quiet walker, her feet padded heavily upon the hardwood flooring down the hallway.

“We only have a few more days until Petrushka closes, I’m saddened, but relieved.” Meg said as she moved to remove her plate from the table. “It was my first show as a prima ballerina, but the pressure has been relentless.”

“You are beautiful when you dance , Meg.” Christine spoke encouragingly, then her tone turned jocular. “I’m not certain where it comes from, heaven knows you cannot walk a straight line when you are off stage.”

Meg simply rolled her eyes at the playful jab. “You’ll see how graceful I can be when you come see me dance on closing night. Mama got you a ticket.”

Christine could not tell Meg she had already seen the performance of Petruska from the very Box the little ballerina had been so thoroughly obsessed with for months. What would she say if she knew her best friend was romantically entangled with, not only the very patron who brought her across the Atlantic to dance upon the Metropolitan Opera stage, but the supposed ‘ghost’ who was rumored to haunt it as well?

“I will not miss it for the world, Meg.” Christine said, displaying as much enthusiasm as she imagined any individual who had not already seen a show would.

The rest of her day rolled by uneventfully as she performed all of the menial tasks required of life. Her thoughts continued to stray to Erik, occasionally she would go into the bedroom she shared with Meg and gently caress the winged creature he had left upon her pillow. Erik’s trespassing failed to upset her as it had before, instead she was merely saddened he had not awakened her. When would she see him again? It could not continue this way forever, with Erik holding the reins of their correspondence.

When the time came to ready for the evening, she adorned herself in a new black chiffon dress she had purchased that week, nice enough for a night out but not overly so. The mid-August heat, heavy and humid, was still stifling enough to require sleeveless attire. Her hair took nearly an hour, as she mercilessly worked with the natural curl of her chin-length hair to create a distinct pattern of waves she had seen on the cover of a recent magazine.

The knock came upon her door as she was applying a plum, red lipstick to her lips, accentuating their bees kiss shape. Rushing with joy to the door, her smile stretching from ear to ear, she threw open to door to see a suit clad Arthur on the other side. His suit was fine, yet casual. His chestnut locks were styled in a manner which promoted their attractive waves. Giving her a broad smile, Christine could not help but think he was quite dashing.

“Well, look at you, all dolled up!” Arthur exclaimed. “Clara Bow has a run for her money, you just may be the next ‘It’ girl.”

“I was just going to say the same about you. You look quite dapper this evening.” She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “I’ll just shut off the lights and we will be on our way.”

She made a quick round of the apartment, shutting off the switch to the lights and fetching her small clutch on the way out the door. Arthur linked his arm with hers as they made their way down the stairs.

“Where are we going?” Christine asked with delight.

“I was going to ask you that.” Arthur laughed. “There are plenty of speakeasies in this area.”

“Where do you usually go?” Christine asked as they exited her building, the air feeling cooler outside than inside the apartment.

Arthur snorted. “This joint over by Washington Square Park. You wouldn’t want to go there, Christine. It doesn’t have the best reputation.” Arthur said. “Besides, it’s a bit of a dive.”

“What sort of reputation does it have?”

Arthur leaned towards her and mumbled into her ear to prevent passing pedestrians from overhearing, “It’s a place where folk like myself congregate.”

“I don’t see why that should concern me.” Christine replied. “Would I not be allowed?”

“Of course you would be allowed.” Arthur said. “I just don’t want you to be uncomfortable.” He shrugged. “And it’s certainly not a classy place like The Gilded Cage, it’s a rowdy crowd.”

“Take me there, I want to see the place you usually go.” Christine insisted. She felt a burning need to prove to Arthur her acceptance.

Arthur sighed, then shrugged. “Very well, the Black Rabbit it is.”

The walk was brief, merely blocks from where her apartment was located. The neighborhood was vibrant at this time in the evening. The urban activity was ripe. They heard the chattering of diners eating on patios, the sound of music coming out of buildings, the occasional horn from an automobile. New Yorkers created their own sort of music, a chaotic, yet organized symphony of hubbub. Christine could almost feel the pounding pulse of the city as they walked through the narrow brick-lined streets of Lower Manhattan.

Arthur led her down a narrow street until they were before a standard brick building that looked a bit like her own apartment building. The door to the venue was on the corner, leading to what appeared to be a simple café.

“It’s in the back, Christine.” Arthur said as they made their way through the tiny façade of a coffee shop. Her ears could detect the rumbling sounds of laughter and conversation coming from a door at the end. She noticed Arthur nod to a gentleman behind the counter of the tiny coffee shop as he pulled on the handle of a second door.

The smell of cigarettes and booze hit her nose the moment he opened the door. Music from a small, four member band hit her ears. One short hallway and a third door later and they were inside the illegal nightclub.

Arthur had not lied, this venue was rowdy. Patrons are crowded together with little space between them. Some sat at tables, others congregated into groups around the bar. The music was upbeat, but slightly disjointed. Smoke hung heavy in the air like a thin, grey cloud. The majority of the patrons were, indeed men, but there are women as well. Some couples were tucked away in corners sharing steamy glances, exchanging brief exchanges of physical touches that alluded to attraction. A few feet away she saw two men steal a kiss. To Christine, it seemed entirely natural, yet jarring because she had never seen two men share a kiss before.

Arthur left Christine at an empty table and made his way to a long bar, squeezing past revelers as he did so. Moments later he returned with two small glasses, presenting one to Christine.

“They only serve one thing here, besides soda.” He said, loudly and apologetically, over the noise of the space as he presented her with the glass of light amber liquid. “You may not be accustomed to it, have you had bootleg liquor before? You’ll want to drink it in one swallow, this isn’t the sort of thing you savor.” He said with a grimace.

Christine gladly accepted the vessel of illicit booze, the drinking glass was cheap, nearly opaque with scratches from repeated washes. Lifting her glass to meet Arthur’s and with a dull clink they made a toast.

“To friendship.” She proclaimed before sending the stringent fluid down her throat. I burned on the way down like acid. It was indeed, terrible, but somehow still drinkable.

Arthur noticed her face and apologized. “I know.” He gave her a slight pout. “It certainly isn’t imported Champagne from France.”

“Is this what most speakeasies serve?” She asked incredulously.

“Some places have rum and whiskey that’s been smuggled in from Canada or the Caribbean, but it’s easier to get it from underground distilleries. I don’t know where Erik gets the good stuff, they stuff we serve is nearly impossible to find.”

A thin, blonde man pushed through the crowd to their table against the wall. Attired in a brown suit, appearing like a man who had just come from a business meeting. He stood at their table with his hands upon his hips, looking cocky.

“Who’s the broad? Is this your beard?” The man asked Arthur, his tone familiar.

“Have some respect, Lawrence. This is my very good friend, Christine.”

“Pleasure, Christine.”

“Nice to meet you. “ she turned to Arthur, leaning into her ear she asked, “What did he mean by a beard?”

Arthur shook his head and rolled his eyes dramatically, “Ignore him. Lawrence lacks manners.”

“Where’s Ralph?” Lawrence queried.

“We’re taking a break.” Arthur said coldly. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

Lawrence joined them at the table uninvited. Christine could see the irritation emerging on Arthur’s face. “I was supposed to meet someone here.” Lawrence stated unprompted. “Met him in on Vaseline Alley, he was wearing a mask but once I got him talking he was dropping pins.”

Christine’s eyes grew large. “You met a man wearing a mask?”

Arthur put a heavy hand on her back and leaned toward her. “That’s slang, Christine. We use mask as a term to indicate when someone appears hetero to the public to hide their true sexuality.”

Christine nodded in understanding. Lawrence reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a flask. He opened the top and handed it to Christine.

It seemed rude to decline, so she grabbed the cool silver container and took a swig. She immediately regreted it, coughing and sputtering as she handed it back to Lawrence. Arthur snatched the flask and took a small sip, pulling a violent face of disgust as he did.

“God, what is this poison? Bathtub gin?” Arthur gasped as he handed the flask back to Lawrence who took a swig like it was water.

“My cousin built a small distillery in his Brooklyn basement. It’s probably an acquired taste.”

“Nobody will ever find that pleasurable, Lawrence. It tastes like industrial paint remover. I’ll go get us something that’s actually palatable.” Arthur announced.

Christine already felt the heavy influence of the alcohol, she should have eaten a heavier supper. It had only been fifteen minutes and she had consumed plenty as it was. She should have told Arthur she was a lightweight, but he was gone before she could issue forth any words.

Moments later she was consuming yet another generous serving of noxious alcohol from Arthur’s trip to the bar.

Arthur was regaling them with a tale about the one time Charlie Chaplin came into the Gilded Cage and a scandal that ensued involving a teenage girl. Christine was attempting to understand the conversation happening at their table. The bitter booze was surging through her system, she felt slightly woozy and loose. It occurred to her that she was indeed quite foxed. The bar seemed even noisier than it had earlier. Her eyes were staring at Arthur’s sculpted lips as he was talking, but she couldn’t seem to comprehend the sentences issuing from them.

She was feeling lost until the band began to play a skeletal rendition of The Charleston and Christine grinned with glee, she clapped her hands together excitedly. Music seemed to be the only thing she could understand in her state.

“We have to dance, Arthur!” Standing and grasping Arthur’s hand she tried to pull him out of his chair. He started to laugh.

“I don’t believe there is room to dance, darling.”

Christine’s lips turned down in a pout, but she was shaken out of her playful reverie when shouting started towards the entrance of the bar.

“RAID!” A man’s voice screamed over the sound of the band. The music immediately halted in the middle of the melody.

Pandemonium broke out. Arthur bolted from his chair, grabbing Christine’s hand as he started to yank her in the opposite direction of the entrance. Looking over her shoulder, Christine saw a flock of uniformed police officers swarming the interior of the venue like an army of ants. Bottles and glasses were being thrown at the authorities while the officers assaulted patrons who fought back with their batons.

A fleeing man slammed hard into Christine, his elbow connecting to her cheekbone with significant force in his panic while his leg collided with her legs, knocking her hard upon the ground. Her hip was burning from the impact with the checkered floor, but she was far too intoxicated to feel the pain fully. Arthur, still gripping her hand, aided her as she scrambled to get herself upright. Two feet away, she saw the man who knocked her down get tackled to the ground by a police officer and beaten over the head with a heavy, metal baton. The sickening sound of metal connecting to bone could be heard over the commotion of fleeing revelers.

Arthur managed to pull her along the galloping herd of a frantic crowd out a back entrance and onto the sidewalk outside. Lawrence also managed escape from the chaos unscathed, joining them when he emerged from the wave of people, mere seconds behind them. Officers rounded the corner of the building and began to chase individuals from the very crowd they had escaped with. Arthur grabbed Christine, putting his arm around her protectively as they turned their backs toward the police and made distance from the violent activity.

Lawrence took the lead, hurriedly directing them down a narrow side street. The noise of sirens and shouting began to fade as they made it further from the Black Rabbit. Christine could feel her adrenaline combating with the alcoholic effects of the incredibly strong liquor she had consumed. Arthur’s arm still protectively wrapped around Christine’s shoulders, the three walked in silence until they reached Washington Square Park.

The park was quiet, still, nearly empty. A few individuals could be seen on the borders of the square, but they were alone for the most part. The three of them sat around the fountain. Lawrence pulled the metallic flask once more, opening the cap and reading to take a swig but Christine stopped him.

“May I have a bit more of that please? My face is throbbing.” She asked, a slight slur to her words.

Lawrence handed her the flask and she took an inappropriately large swallow, ignoring how painful the burn was upon her throat. _Could this permanently damage my voice?_ She thought momentarily before shoving the errant thought away. Lawrence accepted the flask when she returned it, giving it a slight shake to ensure there were still come contents left.

“I’m so sorry, Christine.” Arthur mumbled apologetically as he tenderly touched the rapidly swelling lump on her cheekbone. “I should have warned you about possible raids. They can be pretty common, especially in a place like that.” His face darkened and he looked away, cursing under his breath. “Your man is going to murder me when he finds out.”

Christine adamantly shook her head. “No. He only kills when I allow it now.” She said with a drunken, dreamy air. “He loves me so much Arthur. He’s my Näcken.”

She was far too drunk now to see the frightened expression on the face of Lawrence, but she did hear him say to Arthur. “Please tell me that’s the moonshine talking.” 

The world was starting the spin, the lamplights were splitting into two, suddenly there were two of Arthur and Christine laughed and laughed. 

“We need to get you home, darling.” Arthur said sweetly as he helped her raise to her feet, her legs unable to balance on her kitten heels.

That was the last thing she remembered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Please let me know if this chapter needs work with it’s flow. Sometimes it is hard to tell whether the words feel woody or not, because I am far too close to the project. 
> 
> Fun facts:  
> ** The Butterfly is inspired by hyperrealistic insect origami. There are numerous artists who create it.
> 
> **The term ‘dating’ became quite popular in the 1920’s. Young women’s societal attitudes changed significantly as they challenged the strict restrictions placed on their behavior by Victorianism.  
> The most prominent of these new emerging evolutions of societal behavior, was the mainstream adoption of single young men and women dating without a chaperone. 
> 
> New attitudes towards sexual relations before marriage were also becoming mainstream. One study had found that nearly 35% of women who entered their adulthood in the 1910’s to 20’s lost their virginity prior to marriage. 
> 
> The 20’s were a very fascinating time for women, who had spurned the corset and layer of undergarments, they bent the rules regarding apparel, cosmetics and behavior. 
> 
> ** Who’s ready for some 1920’s gay slang?
> 
> Beard = The boyfriend of girlfriend of a closeted homosexual individual, used to conceal their identity. 
> 
> Vaseline Alley= A particular trail on the SE corner of Central Park to the Mall that was a common place for homosexual men to meet one another.
> 
> Mask= The face/demeanor a gay man adopts to conceal his homosexuality
> 
> Dropping pins = making hints about one’s sexuality, usually to other gay men. essentially ‘letting one’s hair down.’ 
> 
> ** The Black Rabbit was located at 111 MacDougal street in historical Greenwich Village. It was raided numerous times, finally being shut down by police in 1929. 
> 
> There was another unrelated gay bar called the Black Rabbit located in another part of Manhattan as well which was shut down in 1900. 
> 
> ** Moonshine liquor can be incredibly brutal to the system and oftentimes was dangerous to consume. Christine is learning a valuable lesson about accepting alcohol from a flask full of ‘bathtub gin’.


	28. Ours

** Chapter Twenty-Eight: Ours **

****

“You gave the mafia my telephone number?” Nadir asked aghast.

“Not the entire mafia, only Lucky Luciano. Besides, I certainly was not going to give them _mine_. I cannot have them calling at odd hours of the day, interrupting my personal time with Christine; you do that enough already.”

Nadir groaned. Sitting upon the chair adjacent to the desk inside the Gilded Cage office.

“Calm yourself, Daroga. It is not as if I gave them your personal home address.” Erik coolly chided. “They may never call, but I suspect they will. The Shade has been plaguing their operation, they have a personal vendetta against him.”

Nadir leaned back in his chair, his well-formed face lined with weariness and concern. “Until then, what should we do?”

Erik sat behind the desk, his long legs elegantly crossed, his fingers rolling a coin from knuckle to knuckle as he stared at an adjacent wall in consideration. “We reopen. I believe it is safe to do so.”

“What of Christine? Will she continue working as she had?”

Erik’s fingers paused, the coin stalling its back-and-forth migration across the back of his skeletal fingers. “Absolutely not. I will not risk that.” His yellow eyes fiercely penetrated Nadir, as though skewering him for suggesting such a thing.

“You admit there is risk then.” Nadir gently prodded.

“There has always been risk.” Erik replied impatiently, standing up and pacing behind the desk. Within the small confines of the office, he looked like a tiger in a tiny cage. His irritable, imposing figure seemed to darken the room. “Things are different now.” It was true, things were worlds different now. What had started as an entertaining encounter with a young woman holding a knife had evolved into something he could have never fathomed. At first, Christine was simply an amusement of sorts, but then he formed an attachment, before he knew it, she became the first thought on his mind the moment he woke and the only image he carried with him through his day. Now, he wished to have her burned into his eyesight, to be blinded by her brilliance forever. It was as though gravity had taken over and forced them to fall into each other; and who can deny gravity? 

Erik continued, “Arthur understands the risks. Before coming to us he worked in that slum of a place by the piers. That dumpster of a venue was raided dozens of times, they closed as a result. He knows more than most what perils are involved in this line of work.” The coin disappeared from his hand. “Christine should not be required to experience such a thing. The police have been known to be abusive and some of our protections have been murdered. I cannot be fully confident in our solid footing as far as the prohibition authorities are concerned. We shall temporarily hire someone to take her stead. Perhaps Arthur knows of someone who could serve as a shoe in.”

Nadir sat, silently nodding. Glancing at the fingernails of one hand like they were suddenly terribly interesting while poorly attempting a nonchalant façade, he opened his mouth to say, “Very well, we reopen then. But we’ve been closed for a couple weeks, Erik. Perhaps we ought to take a page from Texas Guinan’s book and throw an event?”

Texas Guinan, an individual whom Erik had repeatedly scoffed at for her recklessness. The former actress owned a handful of popular bars including the 300 club and Salon Royale. Her clubs were repeatedly raided, with Guinan refusing to admit to her involvement in the selling of alcohol, claiming the patrons all brought the booze with them. Texas was scrappy, buoyant and never surrendered. Her personality was the driving force for her clubs, patrons were drawn to her carefree party-woman style.

Nadir’s suggestion bordered on absurd. Imagine it, patrons coming dressed in all their finery, rambunctious, idiotic masses celebrating absolutely nothing. He thought of the vapid conversations, the ridiculous laughter, the dancing…

He halted his pacing. A crystalized image of Christine decked in the finest of gowns, dripping in beads and priceless jewels, looking deep into his eyes as he held her lithe body tight against his and swayed her to a slow and lingering melody, their love evident to the swirling crowd of dancers watching them with envy. His life experiences were rich, yet he had never danced with a beautiful woman before, and no woman was ever more beautiful than Christine. She belonged to him, the world should see that.

The thought occurred to him that he held the power to create such a fantasy. After all, he had observed grand masquerade balls within the foyer of the Paris Opera house, spectating the event with contempt and spite, like a true ghost who felt doomed to remain divided from the living. A seed had been planted and was growing the first tentative roots within his mind.

“Perhaps…” He mused aloud. “It may not be such a ludicrous idea.”

Nadir’s expression bordered on flabbergasted. “I was expecting a rant about Texas Guinan and her foolishness. I never occurred to me that you may consent to such an idea.” He stammered. “Could we be ready for such a thing so soon?”

“Three days is sufficient.” Erik sat back at the desk and furiously began to scrawl upon a blank page of a notepad. “We still have time to put this into the paper.” He ripped the page from the pad and thrust it in Nadir’s direction.

The Persian glanced at the slip of paper, the red ink jarring, the handwriting atrocious. “An advert for a Masquerade?”

Erik shrugged carelessly, “I’d like to be physically present for the evening.” He looked at Nadir and caught the puzzled expression in the jade green eyes of his partner. “Do not look at me like that. I too enjoy a good party on occasion.”

Nadir was not convinced. “Erik, you hold the distinguished title for the world’s most cantankerous curmudgeon. I have never seen you enjoy a party. Not in Persia, not in Paris and certainly not here.”

Erik smirked. “As you will recall, the last party we attended together ended in my unfortunate poisoning. Great times were not to be had. I do not believe vomiting blood qualifies as an activity suitable for an enjoyable evening.”

Nadir chuckled nervously at the upsetting memory. “Perhaps. Unless you are the poisoners.” He raised one eyebrow in a jocular expression. Meeting Erik’s gaze, his masked companion offered him a sharp-toothed grin. “They truly believed they had killed you that night. When you arrived back at the palace a few weeks later they were certain you worked for the devil. No man had ever survived a combination of poison and ground glass prior. Your assassination was to be fool proof.”

Erik tsked Nadir. “Who is to say I don’t work for the devil?” His grin grew exponentially. “In fact, who is to say I am not the devil himself?”

Nadir drew his eyes upward towards the ceiling, shaking his head, his tone grew somber. “You hide behind this prickly façade, Erik, yet I have seen the man you truly are.” Erik offered Nadir a doubtful expression, prompting him to continue. “You are not all death and destruction; you held a child as he died and whispered gentle encouragement into his ear as he took his last breath.” Erik could hear the evidence of grief and regret tighten Nadir’s gentle voice. “You did what I could not do, not even for my own son.”

Erik felt the walls around his heart beg to be raised, he snapped out a hasty reply, “You forget, Nadir. That gentleness came neatly wrapped in the guise of death.” He averted his gold eyes from Nadir and looked away, the topic was an unbearable one, the two men had not spoken of it since the night it occurred. “I played my part the way it needed to be played, the Angel of Doom.”

Nadir leaned forward in his seat, a tear slid from his right eye and made a slow trail down his cheek. “I was there, Erik. I witnessed the entire thing.”

Erik felt incredibly small beneath the Persian’s gaze, he felt the claustrophobic pressure of despair. Remorse and regret, he had carried them for years, tied around his waist like weighty sandbags tethering him down in the deep sea of life. His face was not the only thing which isolated him from society, his inner turmoil did a fine job of that.

The Persian sighed heavy. “Erik, I never hated you for what you did, nor did I blame you.” He paused and looked at the hands folded neatly in this lap. This confession was something they both needed. “He was sick and suffering, his death would have been hideous, yet I was too selfish. I wanted more time with him, but at what expense?” The tears were flowing freely now. “You were right in giving my son the death he deserved.”

Nadir’s child had been one of the few lights in Persia. His death, brought by Erik’s own had, had been a merciful one. Quiet, gentle, quick, painless, all the things a person would long for their own demise. Erik had painted him a beautiful passing, cradling the child’s frail body in his arms, singing lullabies and tender words of love as the boy slipped breezily from this plain into the next. He acted the part of the doting father in that heartbreaking moment, while Nadir had fallen apart in the doorway of the child’s bedroom, too grief stricken to play the role himself but helpless to resist watching as the events played out.

“I loved him.” Erik said in a hoarse whisper that did not sound like his own. “He was perhaps one of the few beings in this godforsaken world for whom I have felt that emotion.”

“Do not ever doubt that he did not feel the same for you.” Nadir stood from his chair, the feelings brewing within him had made sitting in one place intolerable. “You’ve made poor choices in the past, Erik, but my son’s death was not one of them. He saw you for the man you could be, not me. If it had not been for my son’s opinion of you, I would most likely have stood back and watched the Shah’s men execute you.” He finally met Erik’s gaze. “However, you probably would have survived even if I had. You’re a crafty little spider, you probably would have managed to get out of that tangled up web.”

Erik felt himself shove aside his ego to reply, “I doubt it.” He said with surety. “I was cocky, too sure of my invisibility and favor with the shah. I may be smart, but I am not invulnerable, Daroga. Enough men could have overpowered me. I am certain of that.”

Nadir looked at Erik with surprise, a confession of fallibility was certainly not what he had expected. “Christine seems to see you in a fine light as well, does she know of your past?”

Erik tipped his head in the affirmative. “She is a fool to love me, and yet she does.” His slender fingers began to absent mindedly roll the coin between his knuckles once more. “Heaven knows what she sees in me. She speaks to me like I am just a man.” The coin stalled again; his voice dropped low. “She is altering me, Daroga. I find the experience to be exhilarating yet terrifying.”

Nadir nodded, “Love is a frighteningly powerful thing. It has the ability to transform.” He paused; a genuine look of uncertainty broke over his face before continuing. “May I offer some advice?” Nadir asked. Erik lifted his hands in a gesture of rare, humble supplication. The Persian’s rich, green eyes cut deep into the heart of Erik as he spoke his next statement, “Deal with your demons, Erik, or they will deal with you. Do not let your past dictate who you become. If not for yourself, then do it for your woman.”

With that, he gathered his brown suit jacket which slung from the back of his chair, folded the slip of paper with the wording for their advert into his pants pocket.

Erik watched as Nadir exited the room, his final words still ringing in his ears.

His thoughts hovered on Christine, surely around this time she would be waking to find his trivial paper gift resting upon her pillow. This was absurd, he could not work with her and he could not work without her. It was impossible to do anything besides drown in her, let her smother him completely in her undying presence.

His spidery fingers ran through the coal black strands on his hair. He would see her tonight, there would be no way around it. He was splitting in two without her. His fist slammed hard against the hard surface of the desk. Damn this idiot Shade character! This damned situation was ruining everything. Before Christine, he would have reveled in this challenge of fighting an invisible foe, this test of his intellect and prowess, but now he just found the entire situation to be utterly frustrating and tedious.

Once he had made the conscious decision to see her that evening, his heart sang, his soul vibrated, his entire being rejoiced. As he completed his long list of tasks and errands, he hardly noticed, he floated through his day, for she was in his thoughts, her smile, her lips, her words, that sweet fragrance which hung around her like a heavenly cloud…

That evening as he glided up her apartment stairwell and knocked upon the shiny, red front door of her home, his heart was radiating with sheer joy. Only Christine had the power to make him feel this way. A minute passed as he waited to hear her feet pad across the floor. His knuckles rapped upon the door again, slightly harder than the first time, but again went unanswered. His quick fingers went to work, effortlessly unlocking the door with the slender tool he kept in his pocket.

He walked through the dark apartment, slinking down the hallway towards her bedroom. Her bed was empty when he opened the door, the butterfly he had left on her pillow was propped upon the windowsill by her bed. It was nearly ten, she was always home at this time. It felt wrong.

Perhaps she went to see her friend perform, perhaps she simply left to run an errand, perhaps she chose to take a night walk thought the neighborhood. His heart froze in his chest when he considered an unthinkable option. What if that idiot of a fop who was repeatedly waltzing into his club looking for her had taken her out for a night on the town?

His imagination began to cruelly play out the scene of his golden love and that odiously handsome young man sharing a secret kiss upon some rooftop beneath the stars. He imagined her telling the young man all of Erik’s secret, confessing how hideous she found him, that her acceptance of his face was all an elaborate lie because she was frightened of him. _‘Oh, horror! Horror! Horror!’_ She would say of his visage, telling her young man that Erik ‘ _Would have been an angel if God had clothed him in beauty instead of filth.’_ The scene was agonizing, he could feel the betrayal in his very bones, fought back the scream that threatened to rip violently from his chest, and yet, when he opened the eyes which were squeezed tightly shut, the image was gone. It was all in his head.

His hands ran themselves through his hair as he fought for composure. Laying onto her bed, the glorious odor of her lingering upon the soft comforter, he patiently waited with his hands folded neatly upon his stomach. He silently composed a melody in his head as he waited.

An hour passed. Erik rose from the bed. He could not remain in this apartment for much longer, eventually Antoinette and Meg would return from the Opera. Deflated and concerned, he exited the building and sat inside the leather interior of his Rolls Royce. Where was she? He wanted to rip the steering wheel from its console. The image of her with that gorgeous man continued to plague him. He understood his fears were utterly absurd, but they haunted him, nonetheless, preying on his insecurities.

He furiously turned the key in the ignition and shifted the vehicle into gear, his mind fuming with possibilities. Two blocks down the street he stopped for a red traffic light, his heart stalled in his chest when he spotted her a few buildings down, draped over the arm of a man. Murderous rage began to boil, thick and black in his tar-filled heart only to be extinguished when he realized he recognized the man. A breath of relief escaped his nonexistent nose, heating up the interior of his mask. There was a second man walking with them, one who Erik did not recognize. Erik watched Christine stumble, only to be caught by the two men and repositioned against Arthur. She was obviously quite impaired.

The traffic light turned green and Erik made the speedy maneuver across the street, parking against the curb and exiting with the car still running. He saw the sheer fear blanket Arthur’s face as he approached.

“How much did she drink?” He rushed forward to Christine, who looked absolutely boozeblind. Her eyes were half open, it took her a moment to recognize him and when she did, she clumsily lunged into his arms.

“Two drinks at the club, but she had quite a bit from a flask as well.” Arthur answered. “The flask contained alcohol that was distilled in a basement, it was potent stuff.”

Erik was looking at the crown of Christine’s head as she nuzzled into him like a drunk, contented cat. His head snapped up, “You let her drink that? Are you out of your mind?” Erik furiously asked. He could see the primal fear in Arthur’s eyes, a good predator knows how to recognize it and Erik was nothing, if not an apex predator. He reached down to lift Christine’s chin, to gauge her coherence, and noticed the round mound of bruising and swelling upon her cheek, initially hidden by her blonde locks. “What happened to her face?” He did not bother to mask the venomous tone, the threat of violence.

Arthur rubbed his face with his hands. “We went to a club, the Black Rabbit, there was a raid. She got knocked down, but we made it out in one piece.”

“How could you be so foolish to take her to a place like that?” Erik roared. He saw that terror in Arthur’s eyes, like a rabbit who was about to be swallowed whole like a large snake, which made what happened next quite a surprise for Erik.

“I’m not sure if you know this, but Christine is nothing, if not strong-willed.” Arthur brazenly replied. “You can blame me all you want for tonight’s events, but the bottom line is this: Christine asked to go to that club and Christine chose to drink what she did.”

Erik inwardly applauded the man’s bravery. He noticed the second man had slowly backed away from them during the conversation, as though anticipating an opportune moment to flee.

Arthur leaned forward and very quietly asked. “You aren’t going to kill me, are you?” It was almost serious, the question was asked with a nervous sort of terror, yet there was a thin touch of humor brushed on the edges of the words. It occurred to Erik that the man was testing the waters of their familiarity.

Erik clutched his beloved woman close. “That would upset Christine.” He smartly replied. 

A smirk illuminated Arthur’s previously terrified expression; Erik had managed to charm him.

“Erik, you’re here.” Christine’s said, her words slurred and muffled by the fabric of his suit. She sounded like a woman emerging from a trance. He rubbed his hands on her back.

“I will take her home.” Erik told Arthur, then he tipped his head in the second man’s direction. “Who is that?” He asked Arthur.

Arthur looked behind him to see his thin, cowardly acquaintance standing a few dozen feet away. “That’s Lawrence. He’s a bit of an annoyance, but he’s a decent fellow. He runs in my circle of friends.”

Erik nodded. “See if he wants a job. The club reopens in three days.” He reached into his pocket and handed Arthur a couple of folded bills, ignoring the resulting puzzled expression he simply said, “Buy a ball mask, you will need it for opening night.”

He hoisted Christine into his arms and swiftly escorted her to his car, leaving the two men on the dimly lit sidewalk. Shutting her into the car like the precious cargo she was, he entered the drivers side door.

His hands cradled her face, she was fighting to keep herself upright. The first night he had seen Christine drunk, he knew she was not much for the drink, but this was beyond drunk. People died drinking the sort of poison she had likely consumed. A person could lift a glass to their lips, the illicit liquid promising a celebratory evening, only to experience organ failure hours later.

“Christine.” He firmly spoke, like a wizard attempting to summon a sleeping dragon. She was looking at him, her eyes squinting as she tried to focus. “Do you understand me?”

“Erik, you’re here.” She breathed.

“Of course, mon petite canari.” He purred, stroking the ugly bruise on her cheek. “Erik will always be here.”

“Oh.” She said dumbly.

He positioned onto her side, with her head pillowed in his lap and started the motor of the Phantom. Five minutes down the road and she groaned and pushed her body upright. He heard the sound coming deep in her throat and recognized it immediately. Jerking the car to the side of the road, he bolted from the driver’s side and rushed to her door. The timing was miraculous, for as he gripped her shoulders and pulled her forward, she was violently vomiting into onto the cobbled pavement of road, the splatter hitting the polished surface of his fine shoes. Her stomach contents where unimpressive, her belly emptying quickly. She was continued to dry heave over and over again without success.

“Ah, you did not eat a sufficient dinner.” He murmured, almost to himself. He rubbed her back as she fought for air between painful, uncontrolled spasms. Her whole-body contorting as it fought to dredge up more from her body, anything to find relief.

Her retching slowed, her lungs frantically sucked in a breath and she began to cry. “I’m sorry.” She wailed as he retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket and delicately cleaned her face as though he were restoring a priceless renaissance painting.

He hummed. “Whatever for?” He sonorously asked, as he blotted the corner of the fine fabric against the corner of her little mouth.

“I vomited on you.” She sniffled; her words still slurred but understandable.

He glanced down at the vomit splattered upon his shoes. “They are just shoes, Christine.” He tilted her face up, planting a sweet kiss on her lips, she smelled of bile and strong liquor, but he couldn’t care less. “It has only now just occurred to me that I have never told you how much I love you." He kissed her gently upon the lips again. Stoking the darkening bruise with the tip of his index finger. "I’m taking you to our home, yes?” The words came out before he could process them.

She mutely nodded and he tucked her gingerly back into the interior of the car, the words chasing him down the street like an echo. _Our home._


	29. The Wraith

** Chapter Twenty-nine: The Wraith **

****

That peculiar tingling in his soul seemed to alert him the moment she awoke. There was no manner in which he could articulate just how he knew something so trivial, yet the sensation was there all the same, like a faint jolt of electricity that made the core of his heart flutter nearly imperceptibly faster. His fingers ceased playing the sumptuous composition he had been improvising, truly he ought to write the notes down, but they were now fleeting into the abyss of silence, thoroughly irretrievable. A shame, that melody was worth notation, yet he had learned over the years that not all creations are meant to see the light of day for long. Most of his compositions were ephemeral things, breathing life for mere moments only to dissipate and die like the dreams one has right before waking.

Moments later, he heard the soft click of a door down the hall and the lovely tattoo of dainty feet upon the parquet floor. Anticipating her approach, he turned on the stool of the piano and awaited her appearance in the sitting room.

He was never prepared for the rush her presence brought him. In many ways, it made him feel miserably weak. It was embarrassing to need someone the way he needed her. He had mastered the art of autonomy, his whole life had been governed by his will alone, and here he was now, a slave to this slip of a woman, utterly devoted like a zealot to his idol.

Before she entered his life, he had cleverly achieved the profound ability of compartmentalizing his feelings and desires. Over the past several years he had become highly skilled at maintaining a vacant coolness that had served him well in business and detained him from straying towards baser urges. That strict, cold castle he had built for himself kept the needle out of his arm and the spilling of death from his fingers.

Her short flaxen hair was wild, framing her face like a brilliant halo, he had long decided this was how he best preferred it. She looked like a woodland spirit, come to take him away to her hidden realm. She was draped in his robe, the sleeves too long, looking like an orphan child wearing a stolen article of expensive clothing. Her countenance appeared so small, so fragile. The sight was terribly endearing, he felt that violent urge creeping upon him to clutch her tightly and never let her leave his sight again.

Pale was her face; she looked quite ill indeed from her escapade the previous evening. The chandelier was extinguished, only one floor lamp illuminated the space. Despite the intentionally dimmer lighting in the sitting room, her eyes were still squinting against the pain. No doubt there was a raging headache, the kind that feels like angry goblin claws scratching within. Erik had not experienced the morning after too much drink years, but he was empathetic to her plight.

“I don’t remember bits of last night.” She admitted weakly as she approached. “How did I get here?”

Erik chuckled darkly as he stood, gesturing with an elegant sweep of his arm for her to sit upon the plush cushion of the piano stool. She approached him with a dense mixture of confusion, relief and shame in her eyes. It was apparent she was relieved she had awoken in his home that morning.

“Sit and allow me to fix you something that should aid your recovery.” He gently commanded as he ran the tip of his finger along the hideous black and violet bruise that had blossomed darkly upon her soft cheek like a bad omen. He frowned when she winced slightly and reached her hand up to touch the tender spot, as though discovering it for the first time.

With quick strides he sought out the kitchen, leaving her to awkwardly sit upon the piano stool. Grabbing a glass, he made quick work of preparing a concoction that would ease the general discomfort of a vitriolic moonshine hangover.

Her eyes were tightly shut when he returned to the sitting room, her beautiful, feminine fingers massaging circles at her temples in a futile attempt to ease the inevitable pounding. Joining her on the piano bench, the drink in hand, he placed a heavy hand upon her back and rubbed along her spine. His fingers could feel the shape of her trim figure beneath the silk of the robe and he forced aside the rush of desire that came barreling upon him like a dark storm. Her effect on him was unbearable, forcing him to lose the tight control he had always maintained. It was maddening.

She accepted the proffered thick, red beverage, hesitating a moment to hold it to her nose and inhale its bouquet. He noticed her lips turn down slightly, quizzically.

“Tomato juice and vodka.” He informed her. Her face scrunched up at that. “Trust me.” He confidently insisted. “There is not sufficient vodka to induce intoxication, but drink it with these,” He reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved a glass bottle of headache tablets. “And it should ease that odious headache you must surely have.”

She gratefully accepted two of the tables with a nod, popping them directly into her mouth and sipping the vegetable-alcohol mix to chase the chalky pills down.

“How did I get here?” She quietly asked.

“I went looking for you last night.” He said, choosing his words carefully. It would do no good to admit the bout of insecurity and desperation he felt when he could not find her in the apartment. “You were not home, but when I got in my vehicle, I discovered you only blocks from your residence. You were with Arthur and another young man.”

Her brows furrowed and she looked at him fiercely. “I don’t wish for you to get any strange ideas, Erik. Arthur is only a friend. He doesn’t even—” She halted her rushed confession, blushing.

Erik cocked an eyebrow behind his mask, a gesture he knew she could not see.

“Does not what, Christine?” He asked with an unhidden tone of amusement. “Prefer the company of women?”

She breathed a sigh of relief. “You knew.” She whispered.

“Of course, I knew.” He nearly snorted. “I have been privy to that bit of information since he first came into my employ. And even if I had not, his taking you to the Black Rabbit would have been telling enough.”

“I insisted.” She confessed.

“So, he has said.” He agreed as he rubbed aimless circles with his hand upon her back. “You put yourself in quite an unsafe situation.” He gently scolded. “I cannot say that I would have been so forgiving with Arthur had you been arrested.” He frowned as he tipped her chin up to inspect the angry bruise upon her cheek that had bled under her eye. She looked like a beaten woman and that alone made him feel murderous. “How did this happen?” He demanded.

“A fleeing man hit me in the face with his elbow. I think I fell as well; I don’t remember all of the details…I…”She shook her head as the memories failed to surface.

“You drank poison from a flask, and you lack the tolerance for alcohol to begin with.” He stated the obvious.

She sighed. “I’ve learned my lesson. I never want to feel this way again.”

“Good.” He nodded. “Let us make an agreement not to accept liquor from unmarked containers, yes?”

She nodded in acquiescence as she blushed brightly. “I believe…” She whispered but shook her head mid-confession.

His curiosity sprang forward with the tentative way she started the sentence. “What is it, Christine?”

“I believe Arthur’s friend knows you have murdered.” She murmured, as though mumbling the words would somehow obscure the guilt she felt in revealing Erik’s secrets to a stranger.

The laughter began to roll out of him like a powerful, melodic wave, startling even him. Christine looked at him as a man gone mad while the mirth overtook him.

He attempted to sober himself. “Do you honestly believe I’m worried about that little mouse of a man?” He affectionately ran his thin fingers through her golden tresses. “Did you reveal anything else?” He queried.

She shook her head shyly. “Only that you love me.” She nearly whispered.

“That should never be a secret.” He gently pressed his lips upon the warm bruise of her cheek. And playfully ran his finger down the bridge of her delicate nose.

She lifted the glass and consumed the last half of the beverage quickly, leaving a bit of tomato juice lingering on the sides of her perfect lips. Pulling a fine kerchief from his pocket, he gently blotted them away as her blush heated her neck. What a charming little creature his Christine was, so feisty yet shy. I pleased him to no end when his touch brought that vibrant rush of blood to the surface of her marble complexion, indicating the mutual attraction she felt. There was a great swelling of pride that he could conjure such a reaction from a woman like her.

“I’m feeling a bit better.” She admitted as he took the empty crystal glass from her hand. “My stomach feels as though it’s been tied into sailor’s knots.”

“You’re lucky you did not consume something that could have caused real damage.” He stated. “Would breakfast help?”

“Perhaps just some toast.” She suggested.

He stood and aided her up from the bench, noticing her slight wince. “What is it?” He demanded.

“I injured my hip when I fell last night, it’s only a bit stiff.” She shook her head and gave a humorless laugh. “I truly had an evening. We were not even out very long. I had managed to get properly foxed and injured in merely an hour.”

He simply hummed in agreement as they entered the kitchen. Pulling a chair for her to sit, he went to work preparing her a couple of slabs of toast.

“We are opening the club in two days, Christine. Nadir had suggested an event of sorts…we have decided to hold a masque ball. I wish for you to attend.” Placing the buttered toast before her and a jar of jam, he sat in the chair across from her. Her face lit up at this news.

“Truly?” She asked with excitement.

The corners of his lips tipped upward; he was helpless to resist her infectious excitement. “When you have finished your breakfast, I would like to give you something.” She looked at him with a waggish air of suspicion, prompting his grin to increase. He could not remember having ever smiled so much in his life, the expression felt infinitely foreign, yet familiar in her presence. _Surely, I look like a ghoulish Jack-O-Lantern, grinning at her like this._

He silently observed her as she quickly finished the rest of her breakfast, swatting her hands away as she moved to clear her plate from the table, to which she shot him an exasperated look.

“Come.” He impatiently commanded, taking her by the arm and guiding her to the sitting room. He moved towards the fireplace mantle and accessed one of the many hidden compartments he had scattered throughout his home. Withdrawing the item, he had stowed inside, he turned towards her and presented the finely crafted wooden box.

Her fingers carefully opened the lid, and he heard the breath catch in her throat. The reaction pleased him to no end. Those gorgeous blue eyes met his with a blend of confusion and delight.

“In the Natural History Museum…when you said you had a larger sapphire…” She breathed. “I had thought you were merely having a laugh.”

He took the box from her and withdrew the necklace from black velvet lined the interior of the box, placing the empty container back upon the mantle like a discarded thought. Walking behind her, he clasped the golden chain holding the brilliant blue jewel around her neck, taking the opportunity to allow his finger to trace the curve of her collarbone and the graceful column of her throat with the very tips of his fingers, drawing gooseflesh from their sensual path.

“The sapphire belonged to the mother of the Shah of Persia. I found it distasteful that such a repugnant woman should possess something so beautiful, so I relieved her of it.” He knew he sounded haughty; he also knew what she was thinking just now. “Do not feel sorry for her, Christine. If you knew her like I did, you would agree.”

She was feeling the enormous, nearly heart shaped jewel with shaking fingers. It was not every day that a person wore a literal fortune around their necks.

“You had once mentioned she commissioned you to design deaths for her amusement…” Christine gingerly asked as she self-consciously fussed with the jewel upon the chain. “What did you mean when you said that?”

He clucked his tongue. “You do not want to think of such things.” He gently scolded her. “Those are skeletons best left in the confines of the closet.”

She shook her head. “Do you not think I don’t already understand the darkness of your past? I do, yet here I remain, tethered to you irrevocably.” Her chin was lifted high, but he could see brief the flash of worry in her eyes, fearful of the description of his evil past deeds.

They silently stood there for what felt like eons, her stubborn expression insisting she wished to know. He knew she had a hidden, morbid curiosity, perhaps it was one of the quirks to her personality that made their relationship work. To the outside world she was this fragile, yellow flower, one which could be trampled easily under one’s shoe, but he knew she was a tigress. It would take a rare woman to look in the face of an executioner and love him despite the stench of death that coated his memories.

“Come.” He gestured as he moved to the opposite side of the room, towards the seemingly blank wall beside a bookcase. It was nearly incredulous, the thing he was about to do, but she had insisted. Perhaps he too had a morbid curiosity, he wished to see what her reaction to such a revelation would be. Depressing a very specific pattern into the inconspicuous notch on the top of the bookcase, the wall clicked open to reveal a door.

“Your home has no shortage of secrets.”, She said.

He waved her into the hidden room, it was dark, but she could see small flashes of light around her and a dark, gnarled shapes. When Erik stepped inside and shut the door the lights turned on in a garish, golden blaze. Gasping at the kaleidoscopic display before her, she found herself standing in a forest of trees with millions of cloned images of Erik and herself radiating out into infinity in all different directions.

“What is this?” She giggled as she held her hands out, trying to find the source of the illusion. Her fingers eventually found the cold surface of one of the mirrored walls.

“It’s a torture chamber, Christine.” He moved over to gesture towards the noose hanging upon the iron tree located in the corner of the room. He could tell by her expression that she had not noticed the macabre ornament until that moment. “Do you feel the heat?”

She nodded. “Yes, it does feel quite warm…” She said, “But, I don’t understand. How could—”

“It will become unbearably hot if we are in here for too long. It is a long and agonizing death; it could take hours.” He ran his hand along the course rope of the noose. “Most do not succumb to the heat; they go mad and take their life in desperation.” He gazed mournfully at the countless copies of his own reflection, gazing back at him from different directions. Christine had managed to make him feel confident enough to walk about his home unmasked in her presence. In this room he could the death’s head he called a face from every possible angle. “I built a room like this for the shah’s mother. It was her personal favorite.” He pointed to a section of a mirror. “Up there is a portion of the mirror that can be viewed from outside, while the victim inside the chamber is none the wiser. You can access it from my bedroom.”

“Why would you have built this inside your home?” She asked incredulously.

He shrugged. His own actions alluded even himself. “Perhaps because there was once a time in which I found death to be delicious, I reveled in the power it gave me.” He looked at her fiercely. “I was a terrible man who relished serving death to others, make no mistake of that Christine. I enjoyed it immensely.”

The heat was growing around them as she felt the surfaces of the mirror. He saw her take in her reflection fully for the first time, a bruised nymph in a man’s robe wearing a king’s ransom about her neck.

Turning to him, she sought him out, drawing him to her, kissing him upon his unmasked face. From the corner of his eye, he could watch the scene, as this beautiful woman pressed her perfect pout upon his nothing lips. “You are not the same man anymore.” She insisted, kissing him more fully once more.

As he kissed her back, he tried desperately to believe her. So deep was the hole to hell he had dug with every soul he destroyed, at times it felt like he stood at the bottom of it, doomed never to see light again. Was she to be his salvation? So long he had been a wraith and now he wished to be a man.

She continued to kiss him deeply and he, in turn, searched the warm cavern of her mouth for the forgiveness he so desperately needed. He felt aflame, only to realize they had stood in the room for far too long, it was slowly becoming an oven.

He broke free from the frenzied kiss, breathless. His golden eyes penetrating hers with an unspoken understanding. He had once again spilled his proverbial guts for her perusal, and she had once again shown him mercy.

“Let us leave this room, my love.” He saw the flash of relief on her face as he located the tiniest button on the wrought iron tree and depressed it, causing the door to the chamber to open. The air that rushed in was blessedly cool. He glanced over at Christine as he pressed upon a panel by the chamber’s door to reveal a cavity.

“What is that?” She came behind him to look into the revealed space. There was a switch and an image…she blinked her eyes to ensure she was seeing correctly. “Is that the club’s storage room?” She breathed.

He hummed low. As he flipped the switch, shutting off the power to the chamber. “It is being sent down via a collection of mirrors within a tube, a more highly evolved camera obscura.”

She put her hands on her hips. “You were spying on me! I always knew you were.”

He chuckled darkly. “It is merely a security feature, Christine. The flooring before the locked vault opens. It sends the person standing upon it through a shoot and into the torture chamber.” He cupped her face in his hands. “Though, I must admit, I used it once or twice to gaze upon your beauty.”

Her face showed the raging emotional war of a woman who had just discovered her lover casually dabbled in torture while simultaneously flattered by his compliments. Perhaps it would be best if he changed the subject now.

“The opera is holding auditions in a few days.” He abruptly said, closing the panel and pushing the torture chamber discussion aside. “If you are up for it, I believe we should have your first real lesson. I believe we can get you cast, chorus perhaps to start, but I intend to take you further.”

She nodded enthusiastically, just as eager to move forward. Quickly, she went to change, and they spent the remainder of the morning engaged in creation. He was an exacting teacher, a perfectionist, and he was impressed by her ability to accept instruction and criticism in stride. The jewel she carried in her vocals was far more precious to him than the one draped heavily about her slender neck. Her voice wrapped around him like a lover’s caress.

With so much beauty in his home, Erik thought perhaps he could have a real future after all…as a man and not a wraith.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was forced to push aside writing for a couple weeks while I focused on nonstop Cellular and Molecular Biology study. Now that the semester is over, I can get back to writing.
> 
> Thank you for the people who have taken time out of their day to not only read, but review! Your feedback encourages and show me me that what I'm doing is at least somewhat enjoyable for a few of you. I am sincerely grateful.
> 
> I hope you are all healthy and safe.


	30. Changes

** Chapter Thirty: Changes **

****

“It’s the truth!” Arthur exclaimed, as they walked side by side down a bustling Madison Avenue. “I had never been more scared in my life. You should have seen his eyes when he saw the state you were in. I was certain he was going to…you know.” He drew his finger over his throat theatrically.

Christine lightly smacked Arthur’s arm. “Erik would never.” She retorted, then looked guiltily at the ground. “I’m sorry I put you in such a situation. I should have been more careful.”

Arthur shrugged. “It happens to us all at some point. I’ve been in a few moonshine scraps myself. One time I woke up inside an Automat wearing someone else’s clothes and my face in a plate of untouched Chicken Fried Steak and mashed potatoes”

Christine’s bell laughter floated in the air, “Did you ever discover who’s clothes you wore?”

“Never.” He chuckled. “Although, the biggest mystery was how on earth I managed to get the pants fastened when I had put them on backwards!”

The two passed a newsstand and Arthur stopped abruptly, grabbing a paper from the top of a stack and unfolding it to reveal the entire front page.

“What’s wrong?” Christine asked. Arthur was chewing his bottom lip, eyebrows furrowed as he scanned the paper quickly.

“If you wanna read, you gotta buy!” The newsstand clerk reprimanded, his Brooklyn accent thick.

Arthur quickly refolded the paper and mumbled an apology, replacing the paper back on the stack. He began to walk again, and Christine scrambled to catch up.

“What was in the paper?” She demanded.

“There was a shooting in a speakeasy downtown.” He said somberly. “It’s mafia run, so that usually wouldn’t seem far-fetched…but…” He looked meaningfully at Christine, “Someone had painted the word ‘Boo’ on the bar. This isn’t the first time that word has appeared at the scene of a crime. Has Erik mentioned the word at all?”

Christine adamantly shook her head. “Perhaps I should ask him?”

Arthur sighed. “I don’t know, but I have a feeling these events have all been related.”

“Are you worried? About reopening the club?” Christine asked.

Arthur gave a casual shrug. “There are thousands of bars in New York, Christine. The Gilded Cage is only one of them, what are the odds they would attack ours?”

“Only that it’s one of the more affluent.” She chimed. “And they’ve done so previously.”

“True…” He agreed, “Still, I can’t live my life in fear all the time.” He shook his head as though to clear the thoughts away. “Enough talk of murder, let’s discuss what you’re planning to wear.”

Christine worried the clasp of her clutch purse. She was incredibly self-conscious of the money inside. When Erik had nonchalantly handed her the thick wad of bills and an address for a couture shop, she had insisted it was far too much. _Nonsense, I’ll not have you underdressed_ , He had said, _If you do not purchase a dress yourself, I will buy it for you. You have made it clear you dislike my breaking into your home and leaving decadent gifts…_

She had called Arthur in a fit of nerves. _Please come with me,_ she had pleaded, _I shall feel terribly out of place in a shop of that kind._

_My brave Christine is frightened of a clothing store?,_ He had teased, yet excitedly agreed all the same.

“I’m worried I’ll select the wrong gown.” She lamented. “It’s so incredibly costly, what if I err in my decision?” She fretted as they reached the block of their destination.

“Listen here, Miss Daaé.” Arthur stated firmly. “When a fellow takes you out, you never look at the prices on the menu, when he buys you a dress, you never look at the tag. If he didn’t wish to do these things for you, he wouldn’t.” He glanced at her. “You come from humble beginnings, I can see how this would make you uncomfortable, but you deserve to have nice things. Let him do this for you.” He reached over and squeezed her shoulder. “Besides, you can’t err if you wear the dress you want.”

Accepting Arthur’s keen brotherly advice, they entered the shop. The brass bell on the door ringing brightly, announcing their entrance. The dresses on display were overwhelming, all silks, satins, and chiffon with intricate beadwork and painstaking embroidery. These pieces were even more exceptional than the dress she had worn to the opera, all the newest fashions. Christine did not realize she was holding her breath until a woman approached them, asking if she could be of assistance while simultaneously looking Christine up and down suspiciously.

Christine became immediately self-conscious of the bruise upon her face. When the two Giry women had seen her, they had immediately assumed the worst. They believed that Erik must have lost his temper and struck her. It took some time to get the women calmed down enough for her to properly clear her lover’s name. They had seemed satisfied when she finally managed to explain the true origin of her battered face, leaving details of which speakeasy she had been visiting during the raid. Arthur’s secret was important to her.

No amount of powder could cover the bruise, Meg had helped her apply a touch of cream makeup she kept tucked away for performances, but it only drew more attention to the angry dark bloom. Christine became painfully aware of every glance, every look, every muted whisper of strangers on the street who noticed her face as she passed by. Was this a mild version of the sort of attention Erik would receive in public? She couldn’t imagine the stares and judgement he must face; it was no wonder he so vehemently avoided the general public.

Arthur did the talking, requesting time to look around, if they needed her they would call her over. Christine was grateful he took the lead.

“I’ve joined Ralph on more than a few shopping expeditions.” He leaned in and quietly informed her. “Under the guise as a friend, of course. The stores in which he shops are much like this, full of snobbery and pretention.”

Christine leisurely strolled through the displays, each well-crafted gown and dress as overwhelming in beautiful as the next. Eventually she stopped at a display, her hand reached out to touch the silvery satin dress of their own accord. Her eyes were transfixed on the fine article. It was crafted entirely with a pale silver satin, sleeveless with a plunging V in the front. The beadwork and embroidery were done with navy blue, gold and black, it must have taken the dressmaker an eternity to finish. It came with a matching kimono-like shrug with flowing sleeves which connected into an elegant train that reached the floor.

She heard Arthur’s faint whistle behind her. “That’s the one, Christine.” 

Arthur called the shop assistant over and pointed to the dress, this is the one they would be purchasing he proclaimed. The woman went to fetch a woman in an apron who went straight to work pulling a measurement tape from her apron pocket and making noted measures of Christine’s frame. It would require very little adjustments; she was told and could be ready within the hour.

Christine was mortified when she heard the price, yet Arthur snatched her clutch from her hand, retrieved the wad of bills while giving Christine a look as though to say, _He does spoil you, doesn’t he?,_ and handed the shop clerk the correct sum of money.

“Shoes, Christine!” Arthur exclaimed while grasping her hand and pulling her towards the door.

They spent over an hour looking in various shops, looking at shoes and other various eye-catching items on display. Arthur stopped to gaze longingly into a shop window of a luxury watchmaker, pining for the well-crafted timepiece which caught his fancy.

A couple of hours later, they had both shoes and dress in hand.

“There’s a costume shop in the East Village, it’s small, they cater to theatres, but I think we may find ball masques there.” He explained as they cut through a thick crowd of pedestrians towards the street curb.

He raised his arm up and moments later a black vehicle, with a thin strip of black and white checkering along its side, pulled to the curb. Arthur grasped the latch of the rear door and opened it, ushering Christine inside.

“I’ve never been in a taxi before.” She admitted when he entered the cab of the vehicle, closing the door. Arthur quickly barked an intersection to the driver, and they began to move.

“It’s the fastest method of transport in New York. It doesn’t cost nearly as much as one would suspect. Besides, Erik is paying. I doubt he imagined you would lug those purchases onto the streetcar.”

As she gazed out of the window at the buildings and pedestrians passing by, Christine could not help but think on her current circumstances. Thinking back on the very first night she had encountered Erik, how her initial fear because fascination, how she had gone home that night and fallen asleep to the thought of her name upon his thin lips. Did she somehow know then of the invisible thread which that begun to stitch them together? Each encounter, each moment in his presence was filled with wonder, terrible revelations and love combined. What would her father think of such a man, she wondered.

She considered the tenderness she felt in Erik’s presence, and knew she was possibly one of the only people alive who had ever experienced that side of him. His hands were capable of the most violent acts, yet when he brushed them along the skin of her vulnerable throat, they spoke of adoration and gentleness, of love and worship. Thoughts continued to drift to his slender hands, his fantasy inducing voice, his odd eyes…

Her reverie was interrupted as the cab pulled to the side of the road and Arthur exited, helping her with the shopping bags. She pushed her woolgathering to the side as she offered him a smile in thanks.

Moments later, they were inside the small, quaint and charming costume shop. An old man sat behind the counter, tools in hand, attaching feathers to a headpiece of some sort. He did not bother to look up as they entered.

Arthur led her to a small room in the back of the shop which had masks of various shapes and colors presented upon shelves and hung upon the wall, their empty eyes staring back at her. They looked like things without souls, utterly devoid of life. None of these masks seemed to carry the same significance as Erik’s, when he removed his mask and placed it upon the nightstand he did so as though he were temporarily removing one of his limbs. Her fingers reached out towards a mask which resembled his, though not nearly as finely crafted. Lifting the mask from the shelf, she placed it over her face and immediately felt claustrophobic. How could one breath for so long in such a thing? How had Erik worn something like this since he was a child? For a lifetime he had endured that imprisonment, forced to hide his visage from others, only to find freedom to remove the symbol of oppression in the privacy of his home, a home which he had built like a fortress. Suddenly she felt a bit ill, tears stung at the corners of her eyes.

“Are you alright, Christine?” Arthur asked, hanging a mask he had been inspecting back upon the red painted wall. His face was lined with concern.

She shook her head. “I’ll be alright. Perhaps I’m just a bit tired.” She fibbed.

Arthur did not seem to buy her white lie but decided not to say anything. His gaze was fixed upon the mask she had hurriedly placed upon its shelf. His face spoke of some unspoken understanding, as though he had done the math and added two and two together.

He turned to a silver, silk covered mask and removed it from its hook on the wall. He handed it to her. It had a slight butterfly shape, covering the eyes but leaving the nose free. She held it to her face as Arthur look on appraisingly. “It looks perfect.” He smiled. “It covers that bruise as well.” He turned and snatched a simple black mask of similar, yet more masculine shape, tried it on and seemed content with the fit.

They made their purchases with the kind man at the counter, who stopped on his construction of the headpiece to accept their payment. Arthur inquired about the intricate feathered costume piece and they were told it was a commissioned headdress for a Ziegfeld girl. The old man blushed as he gushed about the woman’s beauty, her perfect complexion, her graceful form, her wide, shy eyes.

Christine handed her money to the still blushing man who informed her that she had the beauty of a Ziegfeld girl, yet while he issued her the compliment did not take his eyes from the mark on her face. His brows furrowed slightly as he handed her the small bag with her purchase inside. He looked between Arthur and herself as though contemplating whether he should ask about her face, but he remained silent.

As they exited the store, the comment resonated in her head. “What’s a Ziegfeld girl?” She queried Arthur as he waved for a cab.

“They’re showgirls for Ziegfeld Follies, the Broadway revue. Sort of a vaudeville variety show. Some big stars got their start there, Olive Thomas, Louise Brooks, Marion Davies… ” He replied, then looked at her seriously. “They’re quite glamourous. He was right, you’re a shoe in for one and if you can truly sing…perhaps even more so.” He trailed off.

Pushing away the Ziegfeld comment, she entered the cab when it pulled to the curb. Her aspirations to sing never included stardom, despite Erik’s insistence it would be a part of her reality. It somehow felt cheap, as though fame would somehow rob the music of its own spotlight, to strip it of its soul rending abilities. A part of her knew she would wilt under the hot pressures of a celebrity status; she would lose her anonymity and utterly crumble under the weight of scrutiny. How could she hope to share a life with Erik if the eye of the public were constantly fixated in her direction?

No, Christine did not wish to be a star, but she did wish to be a singer.

As they eventually pulled up to her apartment building, she turned to give Arthur a peck on his cheek, bidding him farewell. She would see him the very next evening at the masque.

Standing on the curb, watching the cab pull away with Arthur inside, she began to turn towards her building, but was stopped by the flash of a familiar face. The individual inside the parked vehicle quickly raised a newspaper to obscure his identity, but the damage had been done. Her little feet marched her over, bags in tow, to greet the man in the automobile.

Her hand rapped loudly on the passenger side window once, then twice. Finally, the man lowered the paper, the jig was up it seemed, and reached over to lower the window.

“Hello.” She smirked. “I would ask you what you are doing staking out my apartment, but I may have some idea already.”

The man rolled his beautiful jade eyes and sighed. “He insisted. He worries for your safety.” He replied with exasperation. “I told him it was thoroughly unnecessary, but he never takes no for an answer.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “Do you always do what Erik tells you?”

“Only if I wish to keep my head.” He replied dryly.

“Does this have anything to do with the shooting in the news?” She asked.

He nodded.

She sighed. “Well, Nadir, I suppose if you are to act as my bodyguard, I should invite you in for some tea.”

He smiled, flashing his brilliant white teeth. Nadir was a gorgeous man; it really was no wonder she had caught Arthur in admiring looks of appraisal from time to time.

Nadir exited the vehicle, straightening the lapels of his suit which fit stocky, yet trim figure nicely. Reaching his arms out, he took the parcels she had been carrying and gestured for her to lead. As he followed behind her up the stairs, towards her home they exchanged general pleasantries. It was only once they were inside that Nadir became serious and asked. “Are you happy?”

She accepted the shopping bags from him with a shy smile and placed them inside the sitting room. “How do you mean?” She asked.

“Erik,” He paused, “He is not an ordinary man…moody, eccentric—”

“Yes.” She interrupted. “He is all those things, and yet…” She trailed off. She found it difficult to string together the correct sentence. If she attempted to convey how she truly felt, it seemed inappropriate, too intimate, as though she would expose her very soul to Nadir. Instead, she wandered to the kitchen to prepare tea.

He hovered in the doorway of the kitchen like a guilty child, looking down at the tile. “He has told you of his past.” He stated it as a sentence, but it sounded like a question.

“He has.” She replied softly as she watched the dancing blue flame on the stove beneath the kettle.

“How much has he told you?” He demanded like a father who was vetting his daughter’s suitor.

“I know about the chamber.” She nearly whispered.

Nadir sighed and rubbed his face in his hands. “So, he has opened a great deal.”

They stood there in silence, with only the sound of the hissing flame between them. Christine began to rummage through the cupboard for the tea, but Nadir’s hand fell heavy upon her shoulder. She had not heard him approach.

“I am not trying to convince you of Erik’s unworthiness, far from it.” He told her. “I just do not wish to see anyone harmed.”

Her eyes quickly met his fiercely. “He would never harm me.” She fervently replied.

“I know this.” He agreed. “But Erik will do anything to protect that which he believes is his. He will kill an entire country to ensure he knows you are safe.”

She shook her head. “Erik only wishes to kill the Shade. He has told me as much.”

The kettle began to whistle, breaking the tension. Quickly, she removed it and went through the motions of preparing a pot.

“I will speak plainly, Christine. When he is fixated on a goal, he will stop at nothing. You must be willing to accept he will kill countless men if it means he can get the Shade.”

Christine did not want to have this conversation, it felt like betrayal. Yet a part of her knew Nadir was correct, could feel there was something on the horizon, lingering darkly just beyond reach. A man as lethal and resourceful as Erik had devoted himself to her, his love for her was so vast it could swallow the world whole, like a sinkhole pulling the rest of the inhabitants of earth in with it. Those strange yellow eyes gazed at her with such burning intensity, searing into her a multitude of promises unspoken. They were bound together, for better or worse. If she must wade in a pool of death alongside him then she would, for there was no breaking free now. Who was changing who? Was she truly accepting the ominous events she could feel approaching?

Perhaps once this was all over, they could live their lives in the sun, take walks in the park on Sundays and forget the things that had needed to be done to get there.

All these thoughts remained unspoken as the two of them sat and wordlessly shared a cup of tea. The conversation had ended and it seemed that both had accepted whatever fate was yet to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To see the inspiration for Christine's dress, check out this link https://batwithdings.tumblr.com/post/638137673104736256/doing-research-for-a-writing-project-and-just-fell
> 
> Also, Check out some of the Ziegfeld girls. Some of the photos are incredibly glamourous.  
> Sadly, Olive Thomas had a desperately depressing end to her young life. After marrying and alcoholic, womanizing man, she intentionally overdosed on his Syphilis medication. (Mercury Bromide) 
> 
> I hope you are all healthy and safe.
> 
> Thank you for those of you who take the time to leave feedback, comments really make my day!


	31. The Masque Ball

** Chapter Thirty-One: The Masque Ball **

****

Large, heavy tears rolled down Antoinette’s lined face as she looked at Christine’s reflection. The two women stood before the only full-length mirror, which stood in the older Giry woman’s bedroom. Antoinette had the evening free from work while Meg was off galivanting with some boy her mother thoroughly disapproved of. The previous evening had been the closing night of Petrushka, Christine had a seat at orchestra level, admittingly not as spectacular a view as Erik’s box. She had dressed in the gown Erik had purchased for the opera a month prior, black and gold, silk and beads. It was shortly after the curtains raised for the first act, after the dancing on stage had begun, that she heard his intoxicating voice in her ear. _You look even lovelier in that gown the second time,_ He purred. Her eyes bolted up to the empty box, straining her eyes to see if she would spot a movement, a shadow, anything that was a sign of his presence in the box. She was answered with two glowing pinpricks of light. Her heart nearly burst with joy.

During intermission she flew up the stairs, her feet carrying her as fast as she could, feeling like a delinquent youth rushing to see her secret lover. When she reached his box, the door opened and two slender arms grabbed her, pulling her inside. The two of them spent the second act exchanging languid kisses as the music swelled around them. Cradled in his lap, she had placed her head on his chest and silently dozed to the sound of an orchestra playing to the beat of his steady heart. The roaring of applause had awoken her, startling out of her strange slumber. 

Sitting up, she met the soft glow of Erik’s eyes in the dark. _Such strange, magnificent eyes._ Her foot was all pins and needles, her thigh having been pressed against the jutting bone of his hip for an extended period of time. Leaning forward he told her he would see her the following evening, she was to be his queen to the ball. Would the electricity she felt in his presence ever stop?

Now she stood in a dress which rivaled her opera gown. The expensive garment composed of satin, embroidery and heavy beadwork looked out of place in the humble surroundings of Antoinette’s bedroom. For a moment she thought it looked out of place on her as well but shoved the thought into a box in the back of her mind. Antoinette had painstakingly formed finger waves into Christine’s flaxen hair, helped her apply the kohl eyeliner and mascara, dabbed a small bit of plum colored lipstick to her bee’s kiss pout.

The older woman burst into tears when Christine pulled out the wooden box and opened it to reveal the enormous sapphire necklace. With her hands over her mouth, the older woman shook her head in disbelief and mumbled a string of incoherent words. With shaking fingers, Antoinette placed the heavy stone about Christine’s throat and fastened the clasp.

The final product was a bit overwhelming, she looked entirely like someone else. The woman who stared back at her in the mirror looked sophisticated, mysterious, the sort of woman they put in adverts for cosmetics or cigarettes. That ugly bruise was still there, it had begun to yellow at the edges, but it reminded her she was still the same Christine. Was she the same? It was difficult to pull apart who she had been before Erik and who she was now. Was she having this same effect on him as well?

Christine fastened the mask upon her face. Antoinette had added a few small blue embellishments to the silver silk mask to better suit it to her gown. The older woman was fussing with Christine’s hair nervously when they heard the heavy knock on the door.

Tightening the kimono-like wrap about herself, obscuring the dress beneath and covering the fortune about her neck, Christine kissed Antoinette on the cheek.

She opened the heavy front door to reveal an incredibly dapper Nadir. She had never seen him in black, his suits were typically blue or brown, but tonight he was attired in a sharp black evening suit. His hair had a natural wave, glossed and styled to perfection, reminding her of a silent film star.

Christine tightened the edges of her shrug about her throat a bit more, partly out of self-consciousness and partly out of a slight chill that wafted through the evening air. September had fallen upon them, bringing a slight ease to the dreadfully hot nights they had experienced for the past few months. It had rained the night before, a storm that rolled through and dropped a few inches of rain before departing like a thief in the night. It had brought behind it a cooler front of air, which felt like a promise of future reprieve from the claustrophobic weather.

“You look dashing this evening.” Christine smiled as Nadir gave her a curt little bow.

“Compared to you, I am but a peasant.” He gave her a charming wink to which she rolled her large, blue eyes. “We should probably get to the club, I’d imagine Erik is fuming at this moment.”

They hurried down the stairs, the heels of her silk shoes clicking with each step, echoing against the interior walls of the building.

“But you arrived early.” Christine pointed out.

Nadir gave a humorless laugh. “He is the most impatient man.” He opened the door for her as she stepped outside, a light breeze tickling her neck. He shook his head and gave her an admiring look. “You are privy to a side of that man that nobody else will likely see, Christine. I have to admit the entire thing is surreal for me.”

He led her to the parked vehicle and opened the passenger side door. “What side do you see?” She asked as she entered the cab. Nadir tightly shut the door and walked around the car.

As he entered the cab he spoke, “It’s varied over the years.” He admitted, he paused and considered his next words thoughtfully before speaking. “I’ve witnessed him at his most terrifying, yet I’ve also witnessed his ability for great generosity and empathy. He generally treats me like a pebble in his shoe. I suppose most men would have given up on maintaining a friendship with someone who treats them so coldly, but…he’s complicated. He may often treat me like an annoyance, but I also know he would put his life on the line for me if it were necessary.”

“I think he loves you.” Christine replied with a small smile. “He just doesn’t know how to properly express it. I think it terrifies him to keep people close. Perhaps he is scared of loss.”

“At any rate,” Nadir shrugged, as though the conversation was of little consequence. The gesture reminded her a bit of Erik. Perhaps both men struggled to understand their strange relationship. Had it not been for Nadir, Erik may still be living beneath the Paris Opera, lost in a world of lonely madness, of morphine and chaos. “On time or not, I’ll still be delivering you late in his eyes.”

The engine revved up and Christine looked out the window as she pulled away from her building. Her last day with Erik, he had casually told her his home was hers as well, he had asked if she may feel safer living temporarily in his home. Yet she could see the longing in the depths of his peculiar yellow eyes, the unasked question he was aching to voice. The events surrounding their relationship made it difficult to know what resemblance their future had, but she was certain he was implying he wished for her to reside with him permanently. He had made the suggestion of residency in a tone that sounded almost businesslike, but she still saw that storm of hope in his gaze. They were bound together, he and she, but what did that mean moving forward? Was he a man who desired marriage? Children? Their courtship had been highly unusual, and perhaps that was what she should be ready to expect with everything relating to someone as singular as Erik.

The Friday night was alive and vibrant, New York was a dazzling city in the evening. The streetlamps were a combination of gas and electric, each with their own blazing color. Streets were full of people moving at various paces, heading in different directions. Some folks were dressed for a night on the town, while others were heading home after a long day, looking thoroughly bedraggled.

Nadir pulled into the alley alongside The Gilded Cage. A dark figure stood against the wall in the dark. The shadow stepped forward and Christine saw the flash of a skull, illuminating brightly beneath the amber light of the automobile’s headlights. Her door was opened, and a familiar hand reached out with a flourish to gently take hers. The heart in her chest began to beat wildly, her smile was undeniable, that electricity she felt in his presence was there.

"You are late, Daroga." Erik stated calmly. Christine looked back to Nadir who merely shook her head and gave her an expression as though to say, _Did I not tell you?_

Christine was assisted out of her seat, the automobile door was closed, and Nadir pulled away. Erik wasted no time bringing her inside through the hidden passage, leading her through the dark tunnel and up a flight of stairs until they reached the interior of the club’s office. Only now, under the incandescent light of the office lamps, could Christine see his full attire.

Erik was a striking, imposing figure. Dressed in an immaculate, velveteen suit with tails, so deep a red it bordered on the color of blood. It was tailored to fit his long, spindly built like a glove. The lapels of the suit jacket were adorned in gold embroidery, which, upon closer inspection, was revealed to be words in Latin. His dress shirt and tie were also unusual, crafted entirely of black silk. Upon his head he wore a stylish top hat of matching red material embellished with a single red plume. The suit was gorgeous, but the highly realistic skull mask he wore upon his face, leaving only his mouth and chin exposed, gave the entire ensemble had a macabre effect. The skull fit the contours of his face so well it nearly appears seamless, as though it was his face.

As she appraised him, she caught his eye and realized he was also appraising her. Realized she had been clutching the shall about herself, she allowed it to fall open, revealing the slinky dress she wore beneath, and allowing the museum worthy gem about her neck to shine in the light.

“I wish to buy you a thousand dresses like this…”He reached out and skimmed his finger down the deep V neckline. Her skin tingled in the wake of his touch. “Ma déesee de la lune.” He purred.

“If I am a moon goddess, what would that make you?” She asked playfully. “What does this say?” She traced the Latin with her fingertips.

“Do not touch me. I am Red Death stalking abroad.” He whispered darkly into her ear, sending a delightful shiver up her spine.

Her fingers stopped their tracing, as she pulled her hand away he grasped it and replaced it upon his chest. She gave him a shy smile. “Are you here to kill all the guests at this ball? Am I to be spared, Monsieur Red Death?”

He tilted her chin up with the sharp tip of his finger to look into his eyes. “I will only spare you, Mon petit canari.”

She huffed. “What of Nadir? And Arthur?” She quirked her eyebrow.

He rolled his eyes in a jocular manner. “Very well, if it pleases you, the plague will spare them as well.”

The sound of brass and string instruments floated through the door of the office. Erik flashed her quick grin, his sharp canines glinting in the light of the office. He looked as though he had just discovered a secret.

“What?” Christine demanded.

“Oh nothing.” He shrugged. “It’s only that I’ve just realized that standing bass is out of tune and I truly do not care. It’s odd really,” He stroked her cheek. “That sort of thing typically drives me mad.”

“You can hear that all the way in here?” She was bewildered.

He only hummed in response. He removed his hat, exposing his slicked and styled raven hair. Placing the hat upon the office desk, he took her arm and led her out of the office. The jazz was jubilant and bright, ringing into the air with a celebratory energy. The hubbub of patrons as they laughed and mingled mixed among the energetic music, the clinking of glasses and the cloud of cigar smoke filled the air. The club was lit in the soft, golden glow of the chandeliers and wall sconces. The tables had been removed to make space for dancing and revelry. Erik looked as though he belonged among the rich red and gold aesthetic of the club.

Patrons decked in fine attire with their identities obscured with elegant masks filled the interior. Among the guests, black suited individuals transported beverages on trays. Erik had hired quite a number of people, surely he must have been terribly busy over the past few days preparing for this opening. There were several new staff members, all men. Christine had not truly befriended anyone else at the Gilded Cage besides Arthur, but she did not recognize any of the faces besides two. She knew the two men behind the bar, Arthur and Lawrence. It was a surprise to see Arthur’s quasi-friend manning one half of the bar.

They stood in the middle of a sea of patrons, with the flashes of elegant dresses and evening suits moving around them. She saw the occasional woman stare at Erik with genuine interest, as though he were a tasty morsel, and it caused her a small bout of jealousy. Here in this room full of masks, he looked like a king. Remarkably tall, regal, decked in red velveteen, he looked very attractive indeed. Yet as this all occurred, Erik did not seem the least bit aware, his gaze never left her. His eyes seemed to glow a bit as she tickled the surface of the palm of his hand with her fingers.

The music evolved from energetic to slow, a lovely sweeping tempo. _Do you require a drink?_ , His voice, higher in pitch, asked in her ear, as though a tiny version of him were sitting upon her shoulder. She giggled and shook her head.

“Will you dance with me?” She asked. “That is…do you dance?”

His responding smirk was smug, cocky. She suddenly felt foolish for even uttering the question. She was certain he could do just about anything. Taking her hand, he led her to the floor before the band and took her waist in a firm hold. Her breath caught in her throat as he began to spin her around, she fought to keep her feet from fumbling over his, he was far more graceful than she could ever hope to be.

“Where did you learn to dance?” She asked in awe as the room spun about her.

“I’ve observed it enough to become sufficiently studied.” He capriciously replied. “I had yet to find a worth partner.”

He had never danced before; she was his first. She ought to be irritated by his endless pool of talent, but instead she found the revelation terribly sad. It caused her to think on every dance she had taken for granted, even the ones with pubescent boys with sweating palms.

Simple things she had assumed every able individual had the right to experience had alluded Erik until now.

“Why me?” She asked as he looked deeply in her eyes and rocked her to the lingering melody. “What did you see in me all this time? Why did you choose to love me?”

“Those are ridiculous questions, Christine.” He responded, spinning her around before pulling her back tightly against him. “You may not believe me, but you are unique. It would be more appropriate for me to ask why you love me…but I will not. I would hate for this to be placed beneath a microscope for dissection.”

“You make me feel alive.” She responded. “I suppose I feel as if I had been an incomplete puzzle and you were the missing piece.”

He gripped her waist tighter. _You are my only light,_ His voice purred into her ear. “I believe I love you even more than I do music.”

She blushed. “Is that bass still out of tune?” She coyly asked.

“Terribly, but I’m too preoccupied to care.”

The song had reached its end, the band began to transition into a different song. She immediately recognized the introductory tune. Erik sighed.

“I wish this ridiculous song and dance would cease.” He complained. “The trend has continued for far too long.”

Christine giggled, “You don’t Charleston?”

“It is an absurd cultural phenomenon.” He dryly responded as several folks around them began attempting their own renditions of the popular dance craze. “See? They look like chickens flapping about, their legs have no rhythm.” He scoffed.

“Oh, I see.” She smirked and began to move her own feet about to the tune. “You’re telling me you don’t know how to have fun.” She winked at him as her dancing picked up. He stood still before her, watching her gaiety before rolling his eyes and performing a perfect rendition of the Charleston before her very eyes.

She began laughing in disbelief, grabbing his hands and attempting to follow his lead. Her eyes met his and she could see he was smiling, but it wasn’t a smug one, it was a smile of joviality. It seemed like the most miraculous thing she had ever witnessed.

Nadir cut through the crowd as the song was in his tail end. Instead of a mask, the Persian wore an expression of pure confusion. Erik abruptly halted the dance, turning towards Nadir as he approached with a mouth agape.

“Oh, do close your mouth, Daroga. You’ll begin to attract flies” Erik impatiently snapped.

Nadir mumbled and apology while his jade eyes caught hold of the large gem around Christine’s neck. Staring at it with a look of pure mortification, Nadir turned to Erik with a furious expression.

“Erik, is that the Mazandaran Sapphire?” Nadir demanded.

“Oh my, is it that recognizable?” Erik smugly replied.

“Erik, I was nearly executed when they could not find that blasted stone!” Nadir was aghast.

“And a sacrifice well worth it, wouldn’t you say? Behold, how lovely she looks! I believe that stone was made for Christine.” Erik brushed off Nadir’s anger as though it were nothing but a trivial bit of lint on his suit.

“I always knew you had taken it.” Nadir grumbled. Christine’s hand flew to the decadent stone, feeling like an accomplice to the long-ago crime. Nadir spotted the gesture and shook his head. “It looks perfect on you, Christine. The Shah’s mother is dead now, I doubt she misses it.” His tone was sweet, but he still shot Erik a frustrated glance.

“To what do we owe this pleasant interruption?” Erik frowned.

“I received a call, Erik…You insisted I alert you when they called…” He looked between Erik and Christine reluctantly, it was clear he felt terrible for his disruption of their evening but felt an obligation to deliver this news.

Erik took Christine’s hand and lifted it to his lips. “This is quite urgent. I will return shortly, Christine.”

The two men disappeared through the crowd of people leaving Christine alone in the middle of a room full of masked strangers. Feeling out of place, she made her way to the curved bar across the room.

“I told you that was the dress.” Arthur said in greeting. “Where’s the skeletal beau?” He grinned.

She sighed as she leaned against the bar. “Off conversing about secret matters with Nadir.” She huffed.

Arthur leaned forward and jutted his chin in the direction of a man leaning against the bar at the far end. “See him?” He asked just loud enough to be heard over the music. “That’s Ralph.”

One of her eyebrows cocked upward.

“I know…” He sighed. “I’m helpless, Christine. I’m in pain, yet I’m so in love and I cannot end it. It is true misery. No matter what I do I’m bound to have my heart destroyed.” He poured a glass of champagne. “He wishes to speak to me, I’m probably going to have to sneak a few minutes in the alley…”

Arthur handed her the flute of bubbling alcohol. After the other night, she was reluctant to take it. She was opening her mouth to reply, but a hand fell on her shoulder, causing her to turn around leaving Arthur holding the drink out awkwardly.

“I was sure it was you.” The man said, his suit fine, his mask simple. “The club has been closed nearly a month; I’ve been hoping to see you again…” His eyes met the blue gem necklace with grand surprise. “My lord, Christine…that necklace…”

“Raoul.” She breathed, reaching up to self-consciously touch the generous pendant. “How are you?”

He looked somewhat flustered, unsure what to say. “I suppose I should ask you the same. You look magnificent.” The song transitioned to a sweeter melody. He held his palm up towards her. “Grant me a dance, Christine.”

Her eyes darted around the room, attempting to see the figure in red with no success. She looked into Raoul’s eyes, they seemed innocent enough, but she fretted over what Erik would think. Regardless, she accepted his hand and allowed him to pull her through the crowd, looking behind her to see Arthur still holding the champagne with a concerned expression etched into his handsome face.

“Who was that man?” Raoul softly demanded as he took her waist.

“Arthur, he’s a bartender.” Christine replied while attempting to maintain her distance from him, she wanted to dance to feel less intimate. This already felt like a betrayal.

He shook his head. “No, Christine. The man in red, the one with the strange funeral mask. I saw you dancing, I saw the way he looked at you.”

How much should she reveal? “We’re courting.” She replied plainly and she felt Raoul’s posture stiffen.

“How long?” He demanded, she could hear the hurt expression in his voice. “How long have you been seeing him?”

She thought on the question a moment. “I suppose it started when I first began working here, but it became serious over the past month.” She met his eyes. “We sort of lost ourselves to each other, it’s all happened so quickly.” It had been true, Erik and herself had fallen into each other, plummeting deep into something so fierce and terrifying it was impossible to escape.

“You love him.” He asked forlornly. “There really was no hope for me, was there?”

Christine stepped away from Raoul and shook her head.

“It would appear he is good to you…” He looked her up and down, most likely commenting on the luxurious outfit. They had ended their dance, yet other partners were still moving around them. Christine nodded; she did not know what to say. She was sorry his feelings had been injured but would not apologize for feeling the way she did. It was not her responsibility to make everyone happy. Raoul sighed. “I suppose I should bid you farewell.” He leaned in and kissed her cheek, allowing his lips to linger for far too long upon her soft skin.

He gasped and Christine’s eyes flew open to see Erik standing behind Raoul. Erik had Raoul’s hand twisted behind his back at a painful angle. “Kindly remove your presence from this club.” He growled into Raoul’s ear who was far too stunned to respond coherently.

“Erik.” Christine pleaded. “It was just a dance, he merely kissing me to say goodbye.” But as she spoke the words, she realized there was no such thing as ‘just a dance and a kiss’ as far as Erik was concerned. For another man to gain access so easily to the things he had been deprived of must surely be enraging.

His yellow eyes were furious, he reached forward and took her arm, gently but firmly and led her away quickly towards the office. He was wordless as they pushed through dancers and laughing patrons, who stopped to watch as they passed by. Pulling her inside and shutting the door, Erik ripped the mask from his face and caught Christine’s lips in a desperate kiss of ownership, pinning her hard against the door. She struggled to catch her breath as he sucked the air from her lungs. He was needy, insistent, passionate, but terrifyingly volatile. She felt his arachnid hands slide over her body, moving lower to begin bunching her dress up.

“You belong to Erik!” He growled as he allowed her to surface for air. “Mine! You are mine!” He buried his face in her hair, breathing her in as he continued to pull the fabric of her fine gown up to expose her slip. His hands began to wander, slowly moving up her thighs, and Christine realized this moment was not about love. Erik was lost in a haze of rage; she had never seen this side of him before. Even when he had murdered the man in the park, he had been cool, calculated, in control, but now he seemed wildly unhinged.

“Erik, you’re frightening me.” She shakily whispered. His hands stilled, he leaned back to look into her eyes as he panted. The cloud of fury in depths of his golden irises began to clear and was replaced with an expression of pure despair. For several seconds he stared into her eyes until, abruptly, he released her and fled, disappearing through the secret passage of the wall.

Christine took a shaky breath in and straightened out the lower portion of her dress. The ivory skull stared back to her on the floor, she was certain he wouldn’t have gone far unmasked. She took a slow steady breath and leaned over to pluck it from the floor. A tear slipped from her eye and rolled slowly down her cheek, but she swiped it away. _No tears,_ she scolded herself.

Taking a seat at the desk she intended to wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Erik comes with baggage.  
> * I had been wanting to force Erik to do the Charleston since I started writing this story. He would have hated it, but I'd like to believe that Christine could convince him to do anything.
> 
> Thanks to my readers and those who are leaving feedback! 
> 
> Merry Christmas Eve! 
> 
> I hope you are all safe and healthy!


	32. Like Love, Hate is Blind

** Chapter Thirty-Two: Like Love, Hate is Blind **

****

The shame had hit him in the gut like a cannonball. In her eyes he had seen the tragic mixture of love and fear, knowing he was the witch who had concocted such a strange brew of emotions within those beautiful cornflower blue eyes. He had stood there, mere inches from her face, panting like a rabid animal. It took him mere seconds to clear from the violent haze of possessive fury. He heard her whisper his name, the shaky evidence of distress within her sweet, precious voice. _Erik, you’re frightening me._

He fled, like a pathetic little coward, running from her fear with rage still hot on his tail, vanishing like the ghost he was. The storm came back upon him once he was out of sight, hidden in the dark like a nocturnal creature. Nadir had delivered vital information for his pursuit of the Shade, an unfortunate necessity. Thoughts of Christine alone in the club had caused him to pace back and forth like a temperamental feline while Nadir delivered the information as quickly as he possibly could. Erik had to forgive the numerous times the Persian had stumbled over his own words; such was the speed with which he was attempting to relay the intel.

When he had emerged from the office once more to seek out his queen, he was suddenly struck with the most unbearable image. That ridiculous fop had his hideous hands on his little bird. The two looked beautiful together, a detail that Erik had wished he had not noticed. The couple was dancing, the song utterly romantic and sweet. Her face was lined with discomfort, her body posture denoted reluctance, but she was speaking to the annoying man and allowing his hand upon her waist.

Men dance with women all the time and despite the jealousy bubbling within his breast, he knew it was not an act of betrayal. It was not until that boy leaned over and placed a long, lingering kiss upon her face that the murderous instinct erupted forth. In that moment he wanted to kill that man, not cleanly either. He wished to bathe his hands in the warm blood of that fine looking boy and laugh while doing so. Erik felt beastly.

How dare that blue blooded idiot come into Erik’s domain, place his perfect hands and lips upon Erik’s love, and still expect to walk out the door with his dignity and life intact? The very idea made Erik fume with boiling hot malevolence. With a great cry, he tightly balled up his fist and struck the unforgiving rock of the tunnel wall with the bones of his white knuckles. Pain radiated up his arm as the skin and nerves made impact with the rough surface. The pain did nothing, that black, bubbling vitriol was still there, his tar heart was spilling its contents all over his soul. He required violence.

Recalling his mask now lay empty on the office floor, he made a decision to seek relief from this mad grief. Moving to exit the tunnels, to venture into the night of the city, he hoped he would encounter someone who might dare cross him. It was only a matter of time before some fool stumbled upon him without his mask and started a scene. He wanted to snuff out a life, so deep was his rage, so poisonous his jealousy, so heavy and wicked his self-loathing.

Exiting the passage, stepping into the fresh night air, his mind began to rapidly clear. _This is absurd_ , he thought. Suddenly, he became aware of the bruising of his knuckles, the tingling still traveling up his arm from the punch to the stone. In a flash he became fully aware of the foolish choice he was prepared to make and internally scolded himself for it. _Cease this foolish idiocy,_ he told himself, _you’ve left Christine alone and distressed._

He was deciding to turn back, when he became aware of the familiar sound coming from the far end of the alleyway. It was the scuffling of feet, the frantic, furious pounding of leather shoes, the agonizing groans of a man being beaten.

Perhaps he did not need to change his mind on violence after all…

Soundlessly, he flew in the direction of the activity. Quickly assessing the situation, he saw two well-dressed men taking turns kicking the man who lay curled up in a fetal position on the damp floor of the alleyway. The rain the previous night had left puddles of water lingering upon the rough pavement, collecting in divots and bumps scattered throughout the alley. The poor man lay in the stagnant water of a puddle, his torso and head receiving a multitude of kicks, sounding like a sack of wet flour being punched repeatedly.

It was the prejudicial, homophobic slurs which had truly caught Erik’s attention. One of the men threw his foot back and slammed the toe of his dress shoe into the gut of the man who groaned pitifully and moved one of his arms to defend the struck area, leaving his face half exposed. That brief flash was more than enough for Erik to recognize his own employee, Christine’s most trusted friend…

The lasso was in his hand before he was even conscious of it, like an old friend it seemed to know when it was needed, a lifetime of conditioning prepared him for quick action such as this. The silvery, grey length of catgut was propelled through the air and caught around the neck of the first man. A stiff yank was given, not to kill, but merely to catch him unaware. The man stumbled backward and with a flick of the wrist the lasso was free from his neck. Skeletal hands grasped the man’s shoulders and forcefully flung the heavy body headfirst into the brick of the building. The man’s skull made contact and he fell slumped onto the moist pavement. This move took Erik only seconds to execute, he would have appeared like a red flash.

The second man threw up his arms, absolutely flabbergasted by the sudden interruption. He opened his mouth to say something, but the lasso was about his neck and pulled taut before the words could be issued.

Erik reeled the thrashing man in like a fisherman who just hooked a trophy catch, wrapping the length of the lasso about his bruised hand. The lethal switchblade had appeared in his opposite hand, the blade issuing a sickening metal hiss as it sprang forth.

Delight coursed through Erik’s veins as he imagined what thoughts must be going through the man’s head. His face was growing purple from the strain of the lasso and his eyes bulged out of his skull, but they remained fixated upon Erik’s unmasked face.

Erik tutted. “Do not fear, Monsieur, although I am Death himself, you will not be so lucky tonight.” The knife plunged into the joint of the man’s right shoulder and given a sharp twist. There would be no screaming, the fellow had no more oxygen in his lungs, his body jerking about in desperation for air. The blade, now covered in blood, found its next mark in the man’s left shoulder with the same surgical precision. At this point the man had finally succumbed to the lasso, falling unconscious yet still alive. Erik released the man, who fell pitifully to the ground like the sorry waste of flesh that it was.

The man by the wall was beginning to regain himself, crawling on his hands and knees towards the end of the alley. Pouncing upon the man, Erik plunged the long blade of the knife into the ball and socket joint of the man’s hip, twisting the sharp blade until he felt and heard the audible proof of metal against bone. There was screaming this time as the man fell to his belly and writhed in agony.

Grasping the man’s hair, Erik slammed his face into the dirty pavement. The man wailed but was muffled by the rush of blood suddenly filling mouth. Face wounds always bled profusely. He sputtered and three of his front teeth dropped onto the grimy ground like fallen soldiers.

“This is my domain, if I ever catch you in this alley again, I will finish the job.” Erik snarled into the struggling man’s ear. The broken man fell upon the ground and proceeded to cry.

It was done and he had left them alive, a small miracle for one such as himself.

Arthur was unconscious and almost unrecognizable when Erik finally made his approach. Squatting down, Erik lifted the cumbersome dead weight of his employee onto his shoulder. He needed to act quickly; Arthur’s injuries were severe enough to warrant genuine concern. The young man was not making any sound, he had slipped away into that dark plane that exists with the onset of shock.

It was minutes later that Erik found himself before the panel leading to the office. Would Christine still be there? What would she think when he entered with her friend bruised and broken over his shoulder? Time could not be wasted thinking of such things; he shifted the weight of Arthur’s body and pressed the latch to open the panel.

Her back was turned towards him. In her hands she held the skull mask, her fingers tracing the contours with a noticeable tenderness, but she stopped when he entered the room. The sound of the portal had alerted her, causing her to spin around on the chair with hopeful eyes which grew large with panic.

“What has happened?” She cried, springing to her feet and rushing forward. Upon recognizing the man hoisted upon Erik’s shoulder, her dainty hands flew to her mouth, her eyes welling with tears of disbelief. “Arthur!”

“Christine.” Erik spoke calmly. “Clear the desk, just push it all upon the floor. I need to inspect his wounds.”

Wordlessly she nodded, rushing to the desk and began to frantically push the contents onto the floor. Papers flew every which way, fluttering like wings of a bird, pens scattered with dull thumps upon the carpet. She awkwardly held the heavy desk lamp, still illuminated, in her hands, unsure where she should place it.

Erik gingerly lay Arthur upon the cherry-colored wooden surface of the oversized desk. With a gesture, he summoned Christine closer. Swiftly, he moved the glass shade of the lamp to point the light directly onto Arthur’s body.

“Hold that lamp right there, Christine.” Erik softly commanded.

Erik could see how terribly Arthur’s face had been beaten, his eye on one side had swollen shut, the rest of his face looked like a mass of bruised flesh. Erik inwardly prayed there would be no brain damage, the poor boy had taken several kicks to the face and head.

“Is this the Shade’s doing?” Christine asked as she wept.

Erik sighed as he removed Arthur’s suspenders and quickly unbuttoned the dress shirt, it had been ripped in a few places from the forceful kicks. “No, Christine. This is blind hate.”

“Hate?” She asked with genuine confusion.

Erik glanced at her and sighed. “My life has taught me how to recognize hate.” Arthur’s shirt was opened to reveal a torso, thoroughly mottled with bruises. “There is nothing uglier in this world than the ignorance of man.”

“Why would someone hate Arthur?” Christine whispered.

Erik’s eyes met Christine’s sadly. She shook her head and lost herself to wracking sobs. Pale fingers began to press upon Arthur’s torso, palpating strategic locations, checking for internal bleeding or ruptured organs. Very tenderly, Erik examined his ribs with the sharp tips of his fingers, the very slight shifting beneath his adept fingertips indicated to one rib which had been broken. Luckily it was a nondisplaced broken rib, easier to treat and less likely to rupture lungs or other organs.

Arthur moaned when Erik pressed the tips of his finger upon the tender fracture of the rib to further assess it. His vocalization was a very good sign, even though it caused Christine to cry even harder.

“Christine, run to the bar and fetch a bucket of ice and a towel.” He reached out to take the hefty desk lamp from her quivering arms. It was amazing she had carried the burdensome piece of metal and glass for as long as she had.

She flew from the office like a startled bird flying from a field. Erik was checking Arthur’s skull for fractures. It was obvious his nose had been broken and his jaw had been dislocated. Erik knew a dislocated jaw was immensely painful, but never had the experience of a broken nose…

The jaw needed to be set back into place, Erik had his fingers ready and positioned for the unenviable procedure when Arthur’s left eye opened. The coffee-colored iris pointed towards Erik’s face as it attempted to focus, with the other eye too swollen to open he would have no depth perception. Arthur made a terrible wail, and reached his fingers towards Erik’s face, as though attempting to discern whether what he was seeing was real. _He must think Death had come to claim him,_ Erik thought, morosely.

“Arthur, I need to set your jaw. It will be painful. I would like to do so now before Christine comes back, she will be quite distraught.”

Arthur stared back with the one eye, before shutting it tight and nodding his head in understanding. With a hard thrust and a soft pop, the jaw was pushed into its rightful place. Erik was impressed with Arthur’s attempt at stoicism, the young man issued the softest of whines.

“Can you speak?” Erik asked softly but maintained the detached coldness of a medical professional.

Arthur tried slowly opening his jaw a few times, managing a small, raspy. “Hurts.” 

Erik nodded his head. “Then try to avoid doing so. Can you open your right eye?”

Arthur shook his head in the negative.

“I will not know the condition of that eye until the swelling dissipates. With any luck, it will not be permanently damaged.” Erik stated plainly. Looking about himself for the damned mask which was nowhere in sight.

Christine burst into the office carrying a brass bucket of ice and two towels draped over her shoulder. Upon seeing Arthur awake, Christine rushed to his side and placed a loving hand upon the side of his beaten face. Furiously she ripped her mask off and tossed it to the ground to reveal eyes with bleeding black makeup.

“Ralph.” Arthur rasped. “Did you see Ralph?”

Christine looked to Erik, tears cascading down the lovely planes of her face. “Ralph is his lover; he was here tonight. Was he harmed as well?”

Erik knew of the man they spoke of. He had stumbled upon the two lovers in a secret embrace numerous times. They never knew he passed by as they tried to hide their love in the dark of the alley. There was something tragic in seeing the two men each time. They had found love and yet they were doomed to hide it from the world. They hid their love like he hid his face.

“He was not in the alley; it seems as though you are the only man they attacked.”

Arthur sighed and seemed to relax, closing his only good eye and slipping under once more, the shock too much for him. Erik prepared cold compresses and instructed Christine where to hold them.

Nadir entered the office, his expression evolving rapidly to one of concern. “I came to tell you Arthur had disappeared…it seems you found him.”

“He needs a doctor.” Christine told Nadir.

Nadir shook his head. “There are no better hands than Erik’s, Christine. You’ll never find a more capable doctor.”

Erik stood over Arthur and gazed thoughtfully at his face for a moment. “Do you trust Arthur, Christine?” He softly asked.

She seemed perplexed by the question yet responded, “He’s the brother I never had.”

Erik gave a thoughtful, deliberate nod. “We shall take him below. He needs to be monitored for the night.”

The music was still flowing into the office, the sounds of laughter and chatter from the patrons still heavy in the throes of revelry. Arthur lay upon the desk, quite battered while Christine pressed the ice to his face gently, tears streaming down her still-bruised face. The juxtaposition of joyous brass instruments and near tragedy was striking to Erik. This evening could have ended much worse, Arthur had no fighting abilities it seemed, he had taken the full brunt of the two men’s wrath.

“I will take his place at the bar.” Nadir announced in his native tongue. “Lawrence seems competent enough, but he’ll need assistance. I’ll ensure the rest of the evening goes smoothly.”

Erik nodded. “You still have the pistol?” He replied in the same language.

Nadir sighed. “I do, but I pray I’ll have no need for it.” He reached up and patted Erik on the shoulder with a heavy palm, a gesture he had rarely done over the years. It had never been very wise to touch Erik, much like an agitated venomous snake he had always been ready to strike at the smallest provocation. The small gesture of camaraderie shook him to his core. “Take good care of Arthur.” And with those concerned jade eyes turning away, he exited the office to return to the rambunctious club atmosphere.

Christine had been frightfully silent, it concerned Erik a great deal. She had stopped crying and was staring vacantly at Arthur’s broken face. He placed his long hands upon the slight rounds of her shoulders. The touch ignited something within her, causing her to drop the ice compress and whirl around. Those dainty arms wrapped themselves tightly about him, as though she were about to be sucked into a void and he was the only thing that could keep her grounded. He returned the tight grip, telling her without words that he was here, that he would never leave her.”

The dam inside her burst open then, he could feel her body shaking as the tears broke free once more. The thin fingers of one hand stroked the curled perfection of her hair as she broke apart in the safety of his arms. She was hiccoughing from the sheer intensity of her sobs.

Finally, words were spoken.

“Did you kill the men who did this?” She asked in a hoarse whisper.

He tenderly caressed her back. “No, Christine. They remain alive.”

She began to sob once more. “I wish you killed them, Erik.” She whispered with a ferocity that sounded foreign.

He hummed sadly. “No, Christine. You do not.” He ran his fingers down her back, the contours of her spine palpable through the thin satin of her dress. She had removed the shawl to tend to Arthur. “I left them alive, but the rest of their miserable lives will hold a permanent, daily reminder of this night.”

She sniffled. “What did you do?” She asked with that morbid curiosity he now knew so well, her eyes, dewy from tears, staring up into his.

“I severed the auxiliary nerves in the arms of one man” He looked down to gauge her response, but her expression was empty. “For the other. I severed the femoral nerve extending down one leg. It is unlikely they will ever use the limbs again, but even if they do, it they will never do so without agony.” He did not feel it necessary to include the brutality of the man’s busted teeth in his confession, that last act had not been a calculated strike, he had lost himself to the influence of Rage. She did not need to know how greatly he had enjoyed losing himself to that dark master.

Christine took in a shaking breath, clutching him tighter. “Thank you.” She softy spoke. “They deserved it.”

They stood there for a few moments, wrapped within a strange cocoon of understanding. This must surely be what a knight feels after a successful crusade for his queen. A terrifying realization, to finally understand how much power this woman held over him. She simply had to say the words and he would track the two men down and finish their unworthy little lives, but he did not wish for his little bird to carry that sin on her soul. He would gladly harbor all the filth and grime for her.

Moving Arthur below was done so with care. The lanky young man was not nearly as heavy, but an unconscious body was always much more work. Erik instructed Christine to fetch a spare blanket from the bedroom as he settled Arthur onto the length of the red velvet sofa. She disappeared to tend to her task.

Arthur began to stir, as Erik positioned his head onto a small, round throw pillow. His eye fluttered open as he met Erik’s. That singular iris was riveted to Erik’s face.

Erik sighed. “It is terrible to look upon, is it not? Has Christine not spoken of my face?”

Arthur shook his head, working his jaw a bit, he opened his mouth. “She’s right. You look like an ancient god.” His voice rasped.

Erik snorted. “She is far too complimentary.” He shrugged. “No more talking. Your jaw is still wounded. I’ve something for the pain…do you require it?”

Arthur nodded and gestured towards his chest.

“Ah yes. There is nothing more painful than a broken rib. I’ve had a few myself.”

Christine rushed back into the room, a dark navy blanket in tow. Upon seeing Arthur awake once more she rushed to his side. “Arthur, you’re going to get well, do you hear me?” She spoke the words like an order given from a stern, yet loving mother.

Arthur gave a weak nod.

Erik stood to cross over to the mantle where his simple mask stood propped up. Replacing it deftly he left the room to fetch his medical bag. Christine had draped the blanket over Arthur.

When he returned, he began to work with quick precision. Retrieving a small black case from the contents of his medical bag, he opened to reveal the syringe with two vials. Christine raised a concerned eyebrow upon seeing the injection Erik was preparing.

“For the pain, Christine. Morphine.” He informed her. She seemed puzzled. “I only keep it on hand for things such as this. He needs this right now, Christine. Every breath is torture.”

She reluctantly nodded as Erik rolled up the sleeve of Arthur’s right sleeve and injected the clear fluid into his arm. It did not take long to recognize the rapid effects of the drug, Arthur’s body relaxed and his eye fluttered closed.

Erik took the opportunity to examine the severely swollen and rapidly blackened eye. Prying open the lids with care, he noticed the white of the eye was full of blood, yet the rest of the eye appeared intact. The healing process would be lengthy, but his eye would most likely repair itself.

“He will recover, Christine.” Erik tenderly spoke as he trailed his fingers down the length of her bare arm.

She did not respond to that, instead she sadly said, “I’m quite tired.” The grief of the night had taken its awful toll. His little love was wilting before his very eyes.

“Come.” He commanded. “I will take you to bed.”

It split his heart to see how quickly she agreed.

With the hands of a newly seasoned lover, he stripped her of the elegant beaded gown, down to her slip, allowing his hands to caress her as they did. He lifted her into his arms, cradling her like a child to his breast as he rocked her soundly, her breaths coming out in gentle sighs. She clung to his neck as he soothed her. “I should not have acted as I had tonight.” He softly said.

She kissed his neck. “If you had not, Arthur may not have been saved.” She replied. “I cannot bear to think what could have happened had you not been there.”

“It still does not excuse my behavior.” He argued. “My love for you, it consumes me. There are times I want to hoard you away underground and never let you go. Sharing you with the world is arduous. I find myself dreaming of keeping you prisoner, sheltered only by my love and devotion. I have never felt so insecure, I fear I will lose you if I loosen my grip.” He confessed breathlessly.

“You don’t need to possess me to keep me. You don’t own me, Erik.” She stated but continued to kiss along the length of his throat.

He groaned. “I know. It is rather the other way around.”

She shook her head. “I don’t want to own you; I want to love you.”

In her gorgeous eyes he saw that unspoken desire and soon they were lost in the delirious daze of their kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a really tough chapter to write, for many reasons. Arthur is a character near and dear to my heart, but life for members of the LGBTQ community has never been easy. 
> 
> I also had to do a lot of physiology and anatomy study to accurately describe the payback Erik inflicted. I'd like to believe he would revel in permanently maiming a person to seek revenge.
> 
> Thank you for the thoughtful reviews. Happy new year! May it be better than 2020.


	33. The House Guest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Erik has the mildest of kinks here. You'll probably recognize it when you see it.

** Chapter Thirty-Three: The House Guest **

****

This was not the first time an evening of violence had been followed with physical acts of the most exquisite sort. He tried not to dissect that fact too eagerly, he did not want to believe Christine was simply using the act as a means to erase the bitter taste of a traumatic night. Regardless, He lay there on the bed, stretched out like a sacrificial lamb as the woman he loved moved atop him, attempting to stifle her kitten moans. The two lovers were mindful of the injured man who lay in an opiate induced slumber down the hall. Somehow the secretive nature of the coupling made the act that much more thrilling. Erik always felt a certain attraction towards the forbidden.

Her eyes were gazing at the ghastly planes of his repulsive face, he wondered what she saw there, was it the same as what he did each time he gazed with horror in the mirror? His own face had never lost its ability to shock and appall him, he, the man who was thrust into an existence with it since birth. He, who had seen countless corpses, lived in a world of blood and chaos, still could never come to any sort of true acceptance with his own visage. But Christine, she never flinched, never scowled, never showed him anything but compassion and kindness, even at times when she ought to. The first time he killed, he thought he understood the feeling of true power, but now I knew he had been mistaken. This golden-haired goddess wielded far more power than he ever could. His brave, ethereal beauty was more powerful than any man who had ever lived, for she had somehow seen a man where the world had seen thing of horror and continued to prove to him daily that he was human.

She had fallen forward, pushing every inch of her skin flush against his as she continued to take what she required. What agony! What bliss! He had allowed her to take command, to own him completely in these moments. He could never possess her, for he was her slave.

The heady rush of pleasure was thrumming through his veins, evident in the blood pounding within his chest and the walls of his skull. She set his cold bones aflame, filling him with an exquisite rush of heat too intense for his mere mortal body. Every inch of his corpse flesh was blazing with hot glory.

He was dying of thirst for her. “Give me your spit.” He commanded in a rough whisper.

She looked momentarily perplexed at his request before she leaned over and let a thin, silvery string of her saliva flow into his open mouth below her. The intimacy of the act, the sudden taste of her was even more arousing that he could have imagined.

Pulling her down, he flipped her over onto her back. Pinning her to the bed with her arms above her head, swiftly reentering her, his pace grew frantic.

“I will move the cosmos like a puppet on a string to stay by your side.” He fervently breathed into her ear, as his thrusts hardened. She quivered and quaked with her pleasure, those beautiful blue eyes rolling back into her head as she momentarily slipped away from this plane of existence, succumbing to the wave that was taking her. He let the world explode around him as he shattered to pieces with her, muffling his cry in her heavenly silken hair.

He felt reborn.

 _Marry me,_ he wanted to say, struggled to say, but the words would not tumble past his lips. Each time he stood in her radiant presence, he had desired to make the request, had known since he had first kissed her lily-white hand. Yet he had no name, no country, no standing in the eyes of the law. Any marriage he could possibly offer would be a lamentable forgery, a mockery. Christine deserved so much better, and yet he would never let her go. The circumstance was utterly unendurable.

Falling onto the bed, he rolled to his side to lovingly gaze upon the only thing in this world that had ever truly mattered. She rolled onto her side to gaze back, her eyelids heavy. With faces only inches apart, he could feel the light fluttering of her breath upon his. His eyes closed briefly as he tried to savor the sensation, it felt more intimate than anything ever had. To feel her life brushing against terrible face.

“Erik?” She tentatively asked, his lids flickered open to gaze into her soft, yet weary blue eyes. “What did Nadir speak to you about this evening? What was the call he received?”

He sighed and stroked her cheek tenderly, as though she were a priceless artifact that was forbidden to touch. “Some Mafia members may know of the Shade’s location.” He murmured.

Her eyes opened wide, and she sat upright, the news was enough to jolt her out of her post coital drowsiness. “What will you do?” She whispered, her blonde hair falling into her face.

“I must go investigate.” He replied, sitting upright and tucking her hair behind her ear.

“Must you?” She asked pleadingly. “I have a terrible feeling, Erik. Would it not be best to simply leave it alone? We’ve not heard from him in over a month.”

He gave her a half smile, “This is not the most dangerous mission I have been on, Christine. Someone needs to rid the city of this character; he commands men to kill indiscriminately, simply out of some misguided personal feelings for prohibition.”

“The shooting that just occurred…” She whispered. “There were over a dozen patrons who were killed. So many innocent people…”

Erik nodded thoughtfully. “I am not a good man by any stretch of the imagination, Christine, but this man is much worse than I. Trust me when I tell you that he must be eliminated.”

On her face he saw the turmoil, saw her struggle to understand and accept what needed to occur. “What of the men who act for him? What happens to them?”

He shrugged. “I hope it will be as simple as decapitating the head of a snake. Remove the head and the body will die.”

“Unless it’s a Hydra.” She mumbled under her breath.

He tutted. “They are just men, Christine. They are not mythological entities.”

“That may be true, but mankind had proven how monstrous it can be.”

He looked at her with a sad sort of love. “I am the very last individual to whom you need to remind that. I have taken turns seeing and being the monster.” He leaned forward and pressed his thin, cool lips upon her warm, furrowed brow. “Please sleep, Christine. I must go keep watch over Arthur.”

Silently, he dressed as he watched her settle into the bed, her eyes watching his every move. Such steadfast eyes ought to cause him discomfort, but the expression she gave him only made his head float. She only needed to offer him a smile and it was enough to send him spinning, lost in a dizzy spell of a nameless emotion with which he was unfamiliar. Was it joy? How does one know how happiness feels? He was fairly certain he had tasted it in her presence, gobbling it up in fistfuls like a man starved for centuries will somehow kept alive.

Her eyes were the last thing he saw when he reached over and extinguished the small tabletop lamp, allowing darkness to fill the bedroom like a comfortable blanket. “You are magic.” She whispered to him in the pitch black of the room. “How else do you explain eyes that glow in the dark? My own Näcken.” She yawned softly.

He too was perplexed by his own physiognomy, had always been aware of his remarkable yellow eyes. It was just another one of those things that proved he was not truly a man. He was opening his mouth to reply as much, but her voice cut through the dark first.

“I’m rather fond of your idiosyncrasies.” He saw her sit up in the dark, her slender white hands feeling the air around her in search of him. Stepping closer, he allowed her fingers to seek him out. When she found him, she gripped him, pulling him near and holding him fiercely, pressing the side of her face against his clothed body. “My love is yours, Erik.”

Kissing the crown of her head he murmured. “I will endeavor to deserve it.”

Her naked form released him, a bittersweet sensation. She fell back upon the plush bed, sighing contentedly. In the dark, curled on her side, she shown like a silver crescent moon. Reluctantly, he covered her pale body beneath the layers of covers, murmuring words of love into her ear, before silently exiting the bedroom.

Erik went to his kitchen and artfully assembled a cold compress with ice and a dishcloth. Returning to the sitting room he placed the compress upon Arthur’s broken rib before settling into a chair adjacent to the couch in which the prone man lay to keep watch. Arthur was breathing evenly, with the pain diminished by the drug.

Morphine was blessed in that regard; it could somehow make the unbearable pain seem trivial. How long had those two vials taunted him as they sat dormant in his medical bag, until enough years had drifted by that their siren’s call no longer held the same power? He had crafted and designed a life where that sort of habit no longer fit, keeping himself busy with any silly task or project that came across his desk.

Boredom had driven him to do some ludicrous things, like haunting the very opera house he gave his generous, yet anonymous patronage, sending threatening messages to those foolish little wall street-loving managers every time they made an atrocious casting decision.

He shuddered to imagine a future in which he was required to listen to one more note from the ghastly, cursed vocal cords of that odious little diva, Carlotta. Although she was classically beautiful, her voice could start another world war, he was certain of it. If Helen of Troy had the face that could launch a thousand ships, then Carlotta had the voice that could sink them. It was an affront to the common decency of sound.

No music director with any decent ear would cast such a talentless little troll, but she had managed to get not one, but both of the managers entangled in sordid affairs. She had threatened to go public with news of their dalliances if she felt her contract was not up to her approval. The Metropolitan Opera house had been under her whim for years now, she ruled like a mad queen.

Selections for the season’s programs, creative feedback, changes to the orchestra…those were all within his influence as a patron. He had even experienced the pleasure of watching a composition of his own, written specifically for the talented little Giry, performed to an audience with reviews that marveled at its revolutionary perfection.

Yet where Carlotta was concerned, no amount of money could sway the management. He resurrected the Opera Ghost instead, determined to use fear as a catalyst for change. Yet somehow, not even threats of violence at the hands of a malevolent specter had seemed to trump the threats of failed marriages and Erik had been unable to coerce the management into giving her lesser roles. He had actually considered killing her, it certainly seemed the easier of his choices, but he had never killed a woman before with his own hands and he had made a vow to Nadir before they had left Paris. _No more unnecessary death,_ he had agreed.

He wouldn’t have truly ever killed her, vow or not, but it certainly was fun to fantasize.

If things went well, he could own that Opera house within the next couple of years. He would replace that repellant little diva with one of his own. Christine was green, her voice terribly underdeveloped, yet it was more perfect than anything he had ever heard. Her pitch was near perfect, like crystal. It was not just her voice, her entire spirt held a levity, like she was air itself. When she moved through a room it was as though the very sun were in the room. _My sun by day, my moon by night_ , he thought.

He became aware of Arthur, peering over at Erik with the one good eye.

“Are you in a great deal of pain?” He asked the injured man.

“No. I can bear it.” The young man replied. “Where am I?”

The corners of Erik’s lips tipped up slightly. “My home. My apologies for any discomfort you may have on that sofa, I never have guests and therefore no need for a guest room…” He trailed off, having lost the desire to continue his unnecessary explanation.

Arthur let out a short and sharp breath, his eye was looking at the extinguished chandelier hanging proudly above him. “You know my secret now, don’t you?” He softy spoke, despite the pain it must surely cause. His voice was filled with a tragic sort of shame.

Erik chuckled darkly. “I have known since your first day of employment.”

Arthur snorted in surprise. “What gave me away?”

“An overly extended glance at Nadir.” Erik coolly replied.

“You knew from a look?” Arthur sounded flabbergasted.

Erik sighed smugly. “I’ve an eye for details others tend to miss. It is not an enviable gift; I find it creates a great deal of strife.”

The two men fell silent.

“The last thing I recall…” Arthur finally spoke, his voice sounding bogged down beneath the influence of the strong opiate drug. “I was kissing Ralph farewell…I said goodbye to him tonight…” He said sorrowfully. “It was too painful to love what I can’t have. He’s too afraid to love me in the light.” He took in a shaky breath, it sounded as though he were fighting back tears. “The two men, we didn’t hear them. We had been too involved in our own pain…I kissed him; it was to be the last kiss I would ever give him…” He sighed and shut his eye. “Those men knew what we are, they called us the worst things…I told Ralph to run. Then I just remember pain.”

“When I found them kicking you, you seemed to have resigned to whatever fate you thought was in store.”

Arthur sighed and Erik heard the raw depths of suffering in that simple gesture. “My heart had just been shattered; I had no fight in me.” Arthur opened his eye and looked in Erik’s direction. “You saved me? What happened to the men?”

Erik could not stop the slow, sadistic grin that crossed his face. “They will regret this night for the rest of their days.”

“I’m not certain if it is socially correct to thank somebody for that, but I am grateful.” Arthur glanced Erik’s way with a curious expression. “Have you been beaten?”

“You’ve seen my face, what do you think?” Erik bristly replied.

“You seem too powerful to beat.” Arthur weakly replied.

“It was not always so.” Erik responded without elaboration. He would not tell the young man about the hideous mass of scars clinging to his back with the permanent reminder of all the times he had been powerless, all the times he had been too weak to fight back. He wouldn’t tell him how Christine had lovingly caressed those very same scars with her angel hands, making him feel whole once more.

Arthur’s eye moved to the piano in the corner. “You play piano?” He mumbled, almost to himself. He was clearly on that tenuous precipice between wakefulness and sleep. I was a wonder he was even awake at all, the trauma and morphine should have him well and truly under.

Erik, suddenly inspired, stood and moved to the piano. He would play something that would be conducive to sleep.

The fluttering notes moved from his mind, to his fingers, to the keys, to the stings, in a sweeping and delicate lullaby. Music which would influence even the most stubborn of men to fall into a deep and sound slumber. His music had the power to do many things, for when he composed, he poured his very soul into the notes. Don Juan had a wicked and dangerous influence, but this was different. Christine had changed the music which spun like unspooling thread from his mind. The virtuous beauty of his own music had become startling.

Notes hung in the air like heavy, ripe summer fruit, lingering with promises of sweet delight. The music felt like a tangible, touchable thing as it swelled and moved through the sitting room. When at last, the final note had been reached, the particles of sound in the air reluctantly dissolved into a thick, unyielding silence.

The silence was cut with the soft snore of the young man who had fallen hard into the deep pit of sleep. Lost in a world where broken hearts and angry, hateful men no longer exist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not know my writing streak would be so fierce this week, I hope the frequent updates have been welcome. 
> 
> Many thanks to you lurkers and especially to those who have left thoughtful feedback on the story. 
> 
> Happy New Year! (in the off chance that I don't update before then.)


	34. The Bullet

** Chapter Thirty-Four: The Bullet **

****

Erik lingered for a few more days, postponing his mission to investigate his lead on the Shade’s possible location. Arthur was beginning his slow, painful process to recovery, aided by the occasional injection of Morphine. His condition made no sudden turn for the worse, rather the bruises only grew a bit darker, completely obscuring his boyish, handsome features with the mottled hues of black and purple. The swelling on his face gradually diminished with the application of compresses. When he finally opened his eye, it was a horrific shade of red. _Burst blood vessels in the sclera_ , Erik told her.

Christine spent her days dutifully sitting on a chair near Arthur, reading to him from books borrowed from Erik’s bookshelves. Most of the books were thoroughly unreadable to her, written about a variety of topics she knew very little about, which held no entertainment value. He had volumes of scientific and medical journals, architectural manuals and novels in various foreign languages. They had settled on a copy of The Great Gatsby, a book which had been published only two years previously, to mixed reviews. It was a book Arthur sheepishly admitted he had never read, despite his admiration for the author. Three days later, they had reached the end of the book, the two of them in a wilted heap of tears.

“ _So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past._ ” Christine read aloud the final line of the book, with heavy tears coursing down her face as Arthur gave a groan of agony. She dropped the book onto the floor and rushed to his side. “Arthur, are you alright?” Her voice carried the desperate tone of concern.

“No, I am not. That was the most remarkable and heartbreaking story I have ever heard.” He replied, with his face hidden in his hands. He attempted to sigh, but the pain in his ribs was too severe. “Poor Gatsby…Poor Myrtle…Poor George. So many lives torn asunder.” He grew silent, his breathing short and labored. “Daisy reminds greatly of Ralph. Selfish…cowardly…but impossible not to fall in love with. Even now, after all this, I would do it all over again. Knowing what I know now, I would still walk the same path which led me to love him.” He looked into Christine’s eyes, the coffee brown hue of the irises glowing slight in the light of the chandelier and the bright red of the blood striking. “I’m afraid to forget him, now that it’s all over, I don’t want to stop loving him. I don’t want to stop.” He groaned. “Christ, everything hurts so much. My soul, my heart, my body…”

“It isn’t fair…” Christine whispered. “It isn’t fair when two people should be together, but society keeps pulling them apart. Why cannot love be enough? Why must the world insist on all these rules?”

“You are the exception to the rule, Christine. If the rest of the world thought as you did, it would be a better place.” He replied sadly.

“When I see the world through the lens that yourself and Erik do, it just looks hideous.”

Arthur shook his head. “The world is sad, but beautiful, Christine. I haven’t given up hope, neither should you.”

She gazed upon her broken, battered friend, saw the steely resolve in his painful, mismatched eyes. Two people whom she loved had been persecuted, abused, cast out for nothing they had any control over. It was impossible to miss the unfairness of it all, the utter tragedy. Yet somehow, they had both managed to survive, had both found a way to find the beauty in the world. Erik pursued science, music, medicine, magic... he sought to find the virtue in life anywhere he could, a consequence of his attempt to neutralize the violence, the pain, the death. Arthur sought to find it in his writing, in his nighttime adventures, in history and newsreels, he practically thrived on finding the silver lining in any terrible situation.

Christine had learned so many important lessons by proxy of these two men who had become prominent in her life over the past few months. She had weathered her own loss and tragedy in life, but nothing compared to the challenges they had both been dealt, they taught her to be stronger, more resilient, like a forest after a fire. _Forests need fire to bloom,_ she had once heard.

That night, Erik was to leave on his mission to track down the Shade and she couldn’t shake the dreadful feeling which had rooted itself in the pit of her stomach. Her gut told her something awful was going to happen, she had never before felt such a physical manifestation of a premonition. The fear lay deep in her belly, twisting around like an irritated pile of serpents. She had noticed small details throughout her day and read them as omens. She began to notice a theme of the number thirteen in Erik’s home, thirteen panels in the ceiling, thirteen lamps in the apartment, thirteen crystal glasses at the bar. She spilled the salt at breakfast. Erik left a set of keys upon a table…

The worry was driving her mad.

Erik had tried to keep his distance from the two friends over the past few days, only checking in occasionally to tend to Arthur or administer medication. Arthur’s broken rib would take at least six weeks to heal, which required the injured man to avoid movement until he was given approval to do so. When Erik had delivered this news, Arthur was quite upset. ‘ _I understand your predicament’,_ Erik had empathized ‘ _Of all the things I cannot tolerate most in this world, boredom is one of them.’_ Clearly uncomfortable with how crowded his sitting room had become, Erik had spent most of the past days off in a room down the hall, his workshop he told Christine.

When the hour at last came, Erik entered the sitting room. Even now, as he readied to leave for a mission that could be fraught with danger, he wore a pristine solid black tailored suit which fit his overly long, spindly form like a glove. His physique was not what Hollywood or magazines would deem ‘attractive’, but Christine thought he was elegant, regal, almost beautiful.

Late, the previous night, he had turned to Christine, as they lay in bed, speaking low. ‘ _Arthur saw my face and he did not scream, he did not laugh…’_

 _‘I told you I trust him’_ She confidently replied, if anyone she knew could tolerate Erik’s face, it was Arthur.

He had leaned back into the pillow, _‘The laughter was always worse. Screaming I could tolerate, with fear there is power, but laughter…’_

Now he stood before her, mask in place, holding a small wooden case with a brass handle. He seemed to glide over to the matching chair in which she sat and settled into it.

“What’s in the case?” Christine softy asked.

Erik placed the wooden case upon his lap and snapped it open to reveal a sleek, metal handgun with a cherry wood handle. His lips turned down slightly in an obvious show of disgust.

“I dislike the retched things,” He explained unprompted, “I feel they are too impersonal, too clumsy; the wrong person could get harmed. I am only bringing it along as an alternative. Never bring a knife to a gunfight, they say…” He reached into his pocket and retrieved an object. “Speaking of which, I made this for you.”

He placed the object in her hand. It was cool, slender, composted of a beautiful steel which fit perfectly in the palm of her hand. She looked up in confusion.

“Let me show you how to use it.” Erik explained, he could feel Arthur’s gaze as the injured young man watched on in fascination. With both skeletal hands, Erik encouraged her fingers to close around the ergonomic, weighty piece of metal. “Press here” Her instructed her, running the tip of his finger along a thin strip running up the side of it.

When she did so there came the telltale hiss of a blade as it flicked effortlessly out, with such little force that she hardly felt it. It was not a long blade, but it was remarkably sharp, coming to a needlelike point. A knife perfect for a woman.

She was holding knife in her fist with the blade pointing down to the ground and it suddenly occurred to her that he had designed it this way. The first night they had met she had held a pathetic little paring knife towards him, and he had found her terrible handling of the blade to be humorous. _‘Hold the knife in the opposite direction, pointed down. When you attack, lift your arm up and stab downward, be sure to aim for the face and neck of your target.’,_ He had advised her that night.

When she pressed the button once more, the blade slid back into place, disappearing completely into its artful sheath. His long days in the workshop were spent producing this, a weapon for her.

“You will probably never have a need for it, Christine.” He gently explained. “But I wish for you to keep it on you.” He reached into his other pocket and handed her a soft leather garter with a small holster attached. “You wear this on the thigh, it will keep the knife out of view.” He explained, she nodded. “Promise me you will wear it always, until it is safe once more.” She nodded, though she was doubtful with her own skills in the art of self-defense, she would do this thing if it gave her lover peace of mind. “I must go soon.” He spoke the words and Christine felt them penetrate her like a death sentence.

“I wish you wouldn’t” She insisted.

He looked at her with humor in his eyes. “And leave Luciano and his ragtag team of mafia buffoons to have all the fun?” He quipped.

“Wait, Lucky Luciano? You’re meeting him?” Arthur interjected, sounding like a boy who had just met his hero.

Erik made a snort of derision. “Do not get starstruck, boy. He is terribly unimpressive.”

He stood to leave, Christine followed him and gripped the sleeve of his jacket, desperate. He cupped her face in his large hands, like cradling a fragile Fabergé egg, and tenderly placed a kiss upon her awaiting lips. She could feel the breath coming from the holes in the nose of his mask, a reminder that he was alive right now, that he could very well lose that life. Still, the kiss held a promise to return tucked neatly inside its warmth.

No more words were exchanged, once the kiss ended, he collected the small gun case and slipped out the door.

“He will be alright, Christine.” Arthur said to her back as she stared at the closed front door, her heart banging inside her chest. It felt like a caged bird frantically thrashing itself against the bars of its cage.

Christine sat down once more and took a deep, steady breath. She brought her attention to her friend once more, looking down at the book sitting upon the table before her, awaiting to be read. The thoughts in her head were flying around like a swarm of angry bees.

“Christine…” Arthur interrupted her chaos of thoughts, drawing her attention to him once more. “Why are there no windows in Erik’s home?”

She gave him a slight smile and proceeded to explain the odd placement of Erik’s abode to a very excited Arthur.

Seconds, minutes, hours passed by a glacial speed. Arthur eventually drifted off on the couch and Christine switched off the power to the chandelier. Anxiety was getting the better of her, every muscle in her body felt clenched, she had not had an appetite for the entirety of the day, her head was pounding with a terrible ache. She soaked for a while in the bathtub and readied for bed, unsure when Erik would be expected. Perhaps if she slept, it would make the time go by much faster.

Settling into the soft bedding of Erik’s bed, the scent of him lingering on the pillow, she fought her stubborn mind to sleep. Struggling to conjure sunnier thoughts, she tried to remember moments from her childhood, traveling with her father, the day they sat together and shared a warm, gooey cinnamon pastry while watching swans swim in a lake… _Remember the swans…_

Sleep was winning the fight, enfolding her tenderly into its dark, comforting embrace, when she heard the commotion coming through the door down the hall. In the dark, her eyes flew open and she struggled to find the pull chain of the tabletop lamp on the nightstand beside her.

Rushing into the sitting room, wearing only her slip, she saw Nadir supporting Erik who was clutching his abdomen. Arthur was wide awake, lying prone, but Christine caught the look of concern on his face. Something was wrong, terribly wrong.

“What has happened?” Christine demanded.

“Things did not go according to plan.” Nadir tried to explain. “He’s been shot.”

The beating of her heart nearly stopped, and she rushed to her lover. “You fool of a man.” She nearly cried, panic taking over her ability to think.

Erik frowned slightly and mumbled an apology, reaching a wet, blood-soaked hand out to touch her face but pulled it back before making contact. She clutched his hand as he tried to pull away, desperate to touch him.

Nadir assisted him to the bedroom, settling him onto the bed. As Christine lit more lamps to provide better light, Erik instructed the Persian to fetch his medical bag. Not knowing what to do, she flew by Erik’s side, trying to place her hands over his own which clutched tightly to the wound. She could feel the hot, slippery blood that now saturated his black clothing.

“Christine, I don’t want you to see this. Go into the sitting room.”

“Damn you, Erik, I am not leaving you!” She cried. Nadir had placed a small case black leather case in the masked man’s hand.

“Very well, go into the kitchen, and boil these instruments in water” He pierced her eyes with his soft golden gaze, full of love and restrained pain. His voice softened for her. “This is how you can help, my love.”

She nodded, collecting the case of surgical tools from his quivering hand and rushed into the kitchen. Her shaking hands searched for a pot in cupboards, each door she looked behind was unfruitful and she nearly screamed in frustration. She was hyperventilating, her lungs burning from under-exhaling, she felt the tightening in her chest, angry fingers of anxiety clutching her frightened rabbit of a heart.

 _He must not die_ , she chanted with every fiber of her soul, he must not. Why did everyone she love seem to get hurt? Why was peril following her life so steadfastly?

The pots finally revealed themselves with the fifth cupboard she opened, she had never felt more grateful than in that moment. Filling the water as quickly as humanly possible, dropping the instruments to the bottom, she lit the gas upon the stove and set the water to boil. Wringing hands covered in drying blood, her eyes fixated themselves upon the contents of the pot set on the hot flame. The water sat still in the pot, staring back at her, taunting her. She recalled the saying _‘A watched pot never boils’_.

Glancing at the clock on the kitchen wall, she took note of the time. Pacing in circles, her mind began straying to catastrophic thinking. How could she endure if she lost him? In just over a month, he had cemented himself into her life, into her heart, she did not want to imagine a future without him, whatever that future may be.

Several infinitely long minutes later the large bubbles rising to the surface of the water informed her it had reached the sufficiently temperature. With two hand towels, she removed it from the range. Moving to the sink she poured as much of the scalding water out of the pot as she could. Erik hadn’t told her what to do once the instruments were boiled so she carefully hastened down the hallway towards the bedroom with the heavy, hot pot in tow.

The scene that greeted her when she walked through the open door was not as chaotic as she had previously imagined. Nadir had removed his jacket which was thrown haphazardly upon a chair in the corner of the room, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his arms ramrod straight and pressing a towel firmly against the wound in Erik’s side. Erik’s torso now lay bare, his scars glowing bright under the light of the bedroom, his skin appearing paler than usual. _He’s lost so much blood_ , Christine realized with terror.

Erik gave her a weak, relieved smile when she entered the room. She placed the pot of boiled instruments on the table beside the bed.

“Christine.” Erik spoke, he sounded exhausted. “You should leave, this will not be pleasant to watch.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” She willfully insisted. Nadir glanced at her with a hint of admiration and Erik sighed, accepting her obstinance.

“Christine, take my place here. Put all you pressure on that spot.” Nadir gently directed. She placed her hands where his were, pressing down with force, until her arms quaked with the exertion. Nadir moved to the pot, carefully removing the hot instruments and placing them neatly on a clean tray. Erik nodded as Nadir presented the tray to him.

“You will need to remove the towel when I tell you, mon petit canari.” He gave her a tired smile, even now he was patient and gentle with her, concerned about her wellbeing.

With wet, red fingers, he selected the tool he needed from the tray held in Nadir’s patient grip. The order was given, and Christine released her hands, taking the blood saturated towel with her.

The hole was on his side, several centimeters below his ribcage. Just a small little thing, but blood was spewing from it rapidly. Instincts told her to put her hands back on the wound to staunch the blood, but she watched with horror as Erik dipped the instrument deep inside the raw wound and began fishing for the bullet. His mask obscured his expression, but his eyes were concentrated intently on his work, never blinking.

It was less than a minute, but it seemed like an eternity before the instrument was withdrawn, at and agonizingly slow speed, clamped onto the offending slug. He dropped the bullet upon the tray, which landed with a sharp metallic clunk. 

“Pressure, Christine.” He directed. Nadir handed her a fresh towel which she quickly placed upon the fresh gush of blood.

“I need to cauterize this, Nadir. Fetch the torch from my workshop.”

“What are you going to do?” Christine felt sick, she had heard of cauterization, she knew it was a means of burning flesh.

“I’ll bleed out if I do not stop the flow. I was lucky, the bullet missed major arteries and failed to pierce any organs, but I will lose far too much blood if I do not seal the wound.”

Nadir emerged into the bedroom with a gas torch in his hands. The world spun as Christine listened to Erik relay to the other man how to start the torch, how to heat up the tip of a long instrument until it was red hot. Her head began to feel woozy, black spots were filling her vision, but she forced in a big breath of air to stay present. _Do not faint,_ she told herself.

Erik’s eyes met hers. “Stay with me, Christine. Lift the towel.”

The blood chilling, sizzling sound of human flesh, the sickly-sweet odor of it, would haunt her memories for the rest of her days. Erik let out a long hiss, the only sign he had given all night of the pain he was in. Christine rushed to the washroom, finally succumbing to the effects of the evening and promptly evacuated the contents of her stomach.

Scolding herself for her weakness, she splashed her face with cold water before reentering the bedroom.

Erik was stitching the wound, which had ceased its heavy flow, now merely oozing thick blood. Nadir prepped a clean bandage to place over the finished product.

“It was not serious.” Erik told her as she approached the bed, her body shaking from emotion. “I was merely clipped by the bullet.” She knew he was trying to reassure her, to make the evening seem inconsequential, but she knew better.

“Erik has survived much worse than a gunshot wound, Christine.” Nadir chimed in, joining the campaign to lighten her mood as he secured the bandage over the weeping stitches.

She felt a chill and looked down at herself, she was still dressed in nothing but a thin slip, leaving nothing to the imagination. Numbly, she walked to the wardrobe and fetched one of Erik’s robes from within. Erik mumbled something to Nadir, something to the effect of ‘ _this is why I dislike guns’,_ but Christine was too emotionally spent to register the words.

Nadir gathered the instruments, the pot, the bloody towels and politely excused himself from the room, shutting the bedroom door soundly as he left. Crawling into bed, feeling boneless and weak, Christine found herself clinging to Erik with warm, salty tears pouring from her eyes. Sobs wracked her body as Erik ran his hands, covered in drying blood, down the length of her body. His skin felt cool as she pressed her tear-soaked face against his chest.

“Please,” She pleaded, “Cease this search for the Shade.”

Erik sighed, his voice, usually smooth as silk sounded raw from weariness. “Had I gone alone this would not have happened. Luciano’s men were utterly ham handed with the entire execution of the evening. Their actions alerted to our presence far too early.” He pulled his mask from his face and tossed it upon the nightstand. “I ought to have worn a black mask as well, I fear I made myself a better target.”

“What must I do to convince you to stop?” She whimpered.

His blood encrusted fingers made their way into her hair, massaging her scalp. “I wish for you to reside here permanently. I wish to marry you.” He softly confessed, the words slipped from his lips with a forcefulness, as though he had tried to hold them at bay but failed.

She sniffled, thoroughly confused. “Truly?”

He hummed, clutching her tightly to him. She felt his body shiver slightly, still in shock from the agony of the night. “It wouldn’t be truly legal, I do not have a last name, the law has no record of my existence, I am merely a ghost.” He pressed his lips to the crown of her head and murmured, “Nonetheless I am a ghost who loves you, I wish to haunt the world with you.”

“If I consent, will you stop this foolish quest for the Shade?” She begged, knowing that she would accept even if he refused.

“I am quite vengeful, Christine. It is part of who I am. However, I will consider it.”

Sitting up, her eyes, ringed with a strange mixture of sadness and elation, met his, glowing bright and yellow.

“I consent.” She whispered.

If her heart had not already done it, then his expression, like that of a man who had just inherited all the riches in the world, told her she had made the right choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * The Great Gatsby was released in 1925. It had mixed reviews by critics and sold poorly. Many thought it was a signal to the end of Fitzgerald's career as a writer. When he died in 1940, he assumed he was a failure.  
> Now it is considered an example of a great American novel.  
> I'd like to imagine that Erik would have seen its value immediately.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and for the feedback, it encourages me. 
> 
> Happy 2021, stay healthy! :)


	35. Of Men and Tigers

** Chapter Thirty-Five: Of Men and Tigers **

****

Erik proved to be a very miserable little patient, a result of his intolerance to stay in bed for any length of time. Nadir had thrown up his hands after the first two days, informing Christine that he had played the nursemaid to ‘ _that cantankerous nuisance of a man’_ once before and that she was on her own as he walked out the front door. Christine was forced to employ vast amounts of patience and understanding, but after a few days, even she had reached her limit. Erik grumbled at nearly everything, although it seemed understandable as he had also eschewed all pain medication. She had tried to entertain him the best she could, singing to him, telling him stories of her youth and asking questions about his, his stories proved to be quite tragic, but he continued to struggle with boredom.

Arthur continued to make improvements, thankfully he was a perfect patient despite his broken heart, and she found herself seeking refuge from Erik’s foul mood in the company of her dear friend. Feeling like a yo-yo, she alternated between men for nearly a week until she found herself weak, limp and exhausted, both physically and emotionally. Occasionally, Nadir would return down below to bring updates on business dealings, The Gilded Cage was doing well, Lawrence was proving to be an adequate temporary replacement for Arthur, and there were details about a passenger ship business which Christine knew nothing about.

It ought to be the happiest time of her life, she was engaged to be married and yet there was the looming dread that still filled her soul. Those serpents in her belly had not subsided, she still felt that terrible premonition.

When at last, Christine had reached a point in which she felt she could no longer sustain the constant care of the two important men in her life, Erik left his bed. Half-heartedly, she tried to convince him otherwise, but he insisted his ability to heal was expedient. She knew it was far too soon for him to be up and about, but secretly she was relieved. It was difficult to say just how much longer she could withstand his bitter disposition.

Erik disappeared into his workshop for two more days, only coming out occasionally to eat a paltry meal or offer Christine a tender moment of affection. It suddenly occurred to Christine during this time that she had not experienced Erik’s true habits, had never spent more than a few days at a time in his presence. She had always known the man to have an eccentric lifestyle, but to what extent she was unsure. Would all their days be like this, with his erratic moods and his long periods spent solely devoted to one project or the other?

When at last he emerged, he presented her a gold ring. It was a simple thing, really, nothing more than a plain gold band.

“I had constructed design after design, some with precious gems… ” He explained, “Yet they all seemed too garish, too vulgar, too flashy. They seemed to miss the point of the thing entirely.”

She nodded her head. “Yes,” She agreed, “What matters is the vow, the promise, the commitment.”

As he slipped the dainty sliver of precious metal upon her finger with a reverence reserved for a deity, she felt the bloom of heated love within her chest.

“I have been quite the cur the past several days.” He murmured, “I loathe helplessness in relation to myself.” He explained. “It pains me that you were forced to endure such odious behavior.”

“I’m grateful I had Arthur to pull me away.” She teased. “You were indeed an ogre.”

His body appeared tense. “I am not always an easy man, Christine.”

“As I have become aware.” She replied with humor, an eyebrow raised, “I am not withdrawing my consent to marry you.”

She saw the relief wash over his unmasked face. “I will feel a great deal more comfortable if you will also consent to reside here, I would like for this to happen in the next day or two.”

Christine had been in contact with the Giry women via telephone. Antoinette had come to terms with Christine’s decision to marry her dangerous suitor, and though she had expressed reservations, it was clear that she approved of the manner in which Erik treated the woman he loved. Many details of the past week had been withheld from Antoinette, namely Erik’s injury and the details leading to it. It would serve no purpose other than worrying the older woman.

Telling Antoinette of her intent to move residence was not quite as easy as she had hoped it would be. Her surrogate mother wondered aloud about the proprietary of the situation, a consequence of the manner in which she herself had grown up. As a product of the Victorian Era, the older Giry woman still had opinions regarding proper social behavior. Had Christine been the woman’s daughter, she was certain her blessing to move in with Erik prior to marriage would have been withheld. Christine made plans with Antoinette to pick up her belongings the next day.

Nadir was given the task of driving Christine to the Giry apartment to pack her meager possessions for transport back to the home underground. The early evening was exceptionally pleasant, with a fresh, crisp breeze coming onto Manhattan island from the water. The weather was a promise for the bringing of the autumnal season, a beautiful time, particularly in Central Park, Arthur had said. On the horizon, the light was turning a dazzling shade of plum and orange, a glorious sunset lighting up the stretch of fluffy clouds on the western portion of the sky.

The vehicle which Nadir drove about town was waiting for them in the alley when they exited the passage leading to the labyrinth beneath The Gilded Cage. Humbler than Erik’s Rolls Royce Phantom, the black Chrysler Model B-70 would blend in exceedingly well in most of Manhattan, as it had been one of the best-selling models since its release in 1924.

Inside the cab of the vehicle, Nadir glanced at the ring upon Christine’s left hand as it lay neatly folded atop the other in her lap. She offered him a genuine smile and he shook his head in a show of disbelief.

“I admit, I never thought I would see the day.” He confessed. “I always believed there would be a woman in the world who could love the man, but his life is so unorthodox, I had begun to give up hope.”

“I do recall, you were under the impression he had coerced me by nefarious means.” She jested.

“He had never been in love before, the man is quite intense, you must know this by now.”

“He is.” She agreed. “He feels so much, so passionately, yet attempts to hide it beneath a cool façade.”

Nodding, Nadir replied. “He may possibly feel more than we could possibly hope to understand.”

“May I ask you something?” Christine tentatively asked, worrying her lip a bit. Nadir only nodded. “Did Erik’s time in Persia make him the lethal man he is?”

Nadir shook his head. “No.” He replied sadly. “Erik was already a vicious and ruthless killer when we met. He had killed dozens of men already, often out of necessity, his life was doomed to violence from the start. He came to Persia with that skill, the shah and his mother merely exploited it.” He sighed deeply, rubbing his eyes with one hand while the other remain rested on the steering wheel. “I do not wish for you to develop a poor opinion of my country, Christine. It isn’t a savage culture full of bloodshed and torture, full of political corruption, of female slaves and unwilling women. The Western beliefs about my culture, about its politics, and their understanding of Harems, are all very misguided. The shah’s mother was terrible, the shah a bit eccentric, but the rest of the country is very lovely.”

Christine nodded and gave a slight smile. “Erik spoke of its beauty; he spoke of the Caspian Tigers, that he saw one once.”

Nadir let out a sharp bark of a laugh. “Did Erik tell you what happened with the tiger?”

“Am I going to regret asking?” She nervously responded.

“Erik charmed it.” He replied, his voice holding the same amount of disbelief as one who was first witnessing such a miracle for the first time. “We were traveling along the Caspian Sea in a small caravan, the natural beauty there in unrivaled. One night, we set up camp and there came the glow of eyes from the thick brush. Then came the growl, a growl so terrible it raised the hairs on my arms and sent a chill through my very soul. I was certain we were to be its prey and then Erik opened that sorcerer’s mouth of his and began to sing to the creature.” Nadir was speaking wistfully, eyes still on the road as they drew closer to the Greenwich Village neighborhood. “The tiger approached Erik who stroked the creature as though it were some sort of house pet. He did something, said something perhaps, I’ll never know, but the tiger turned around and trotted off into the forest. Erik has done many magical things, but that was, perhaps, the most magnificent I have ever seen.”

Christine was lost in a dreamlike world where tall, masked men charm wild tigers when they finally pulled up to the front of the Giry apartment building. Blinking a few times to clear the fantastical image from her mind, she stopped Nadir who had moved open his driver side door.

“I’ll only be a minute,” She told him with a smile, a hand placed upon his shoulder. “I own very little, a suitcase really. It will not take me very long.”

He seemed to accept this and nodded. Sitting back into his seat as she exited the vehicle.

Her kitten heels echoed through the interior of the building as she climbed the stairs to the apartment. Antoinette and Meg would be home, but with Nadir waiting in the vehicle outside it would require their talks to be brief. Opening the glossy, red front door of the apartment.

The smell of fresh coffee filled the air. Three of the dining room chairs were all pushed from the table. There were dirty dishes cluttering the dining room table and a cup full of steaming coffee sat where each displaced chair sat. It looked as though three individuals had been interrupted while drinking and had simply vanished. Christine knew immediately that something was terribly wrong, she could feel it down to her bones.

Christine turned to flee, but a large man emerged from the kitchen, grabbing her soundly and placing a large, meaty hand over her mouth and nose before she could issue a sound. She tried in vain to scream against the fleshy palm of his hand, tried to bite him in desperation, but failed miserably. She couldn’t breathe, her airways firmly blocked by the thick hand of the man who gripped her tightly. Her hands clawed out like a frantic wild animal, but he held her arms tight about her body with his available arm.

Two more men emerged from the hallway leading to the bedrooms and images of Meg and Antoinette laying lifeless flashed within her mind. Did they kill the only family she had? Was she to blame for the two women’s demise? She saw the gun in the hand of one of the emerging men and, for a moment, she was grateful Nadir had waited downstairs. One less causality.

This was it; this was to be the moment in which she died, suffocated by the sweaty, brawny hand of a stranger. Dark spots began to flash across her vision as she moaned, her lungs burning for air.

“Finally,” The man who captured her said in her ear, his voice rumbling like a beast. “We’ve been waiting here for over a day.”

“We gotta go out the back exit.” She heard the voice of one man say as her vision began to blur. “Wait until she’s gone, and we’ll make the move.”

_Wait until she’s gone…_

As she started to dip below the surface of consciousness, she thought of her father, the way his hands moved upon the violin with such love. She thought of Arthur, who flashed the most charming grin as he told a juicy story from the news. She thought of Meg and Antoinette, who gave her a sense of home. She thought of Erik, who filled her soul with wonder and love.

 _I love you all, I wish we had more time,_ was her last thought as she finally sank beneath the surface and into oblivion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * I love Phantom by Susan Kay. However, it is an imperfect book. While I still love that section of Kay's book, I think it is important to remember that those images of Persia are not fully based on fact, but rather the stereotypical imagery of the orient that had been fully solidified in the 19th century, perpetuated by art, books and film. Many of those images still linger today.
> 
> *The Caspian Tiger became extinct in the year 2001. It was one of the largest living cats at one point in time.


	36. Williamsburg

** Chapter Thirty-Six: Williamsburg **

****

When Nadir rushed into the underground home sweaty, panic stricken, face drained of blood, Erik knew. The glean in his usually cool, jade eyes were fevered, mad, wild. The blood in Erik’s body went from frigid to boiling in seconds and his heart began to race faster than a hummingbird’s wings. Something terrible happened to Christine at the apartment, he knew before the Persian could even utter a pitiful word. What has happened?

“She’s gone!” Nadir shouted as he rushed inside. “She said to wait outside, that she would only be a moment. I waited, but she took far too long. Erik, someone has abducted her.”

His frantically thrumming heart ceased to beat almost entirely, suspended in time within his chest, floating like a dead bit of meat. If anything happened to Christine he would surely die, he would replace his bed for a coffin, would lay in its confines until he eventually died from heartbreak and love. It would be a fitting end for a ghost, the end of his love story, played out like a true tragedy.

The premature grief was replaced by a maddening, wicked rage.

“The Shade.” He growled, balling up his fists and slamming them hard against the smooth wood of the wall. Pain radiated through his hands from the impact. He needed to choose the course of action and he needed to do so quickly.

Lucky Luciano’s men had found a warehouse in Brooklyn, some of the Shades men were stationed there with quite a large shipment of firearms and a small fleet of trucks. The Shade was nothing more than an idealistic group of fanatics under the guise of organized crime. Who knew how far that web extended? How deep did the conspiracy run? Erik had certainly experienced countless criminal groups in the past, but this one was new. They operated much differently from other crime syndicates, they were in the business to incite terror, not make a profit.

“Erik, there’s something else you need to know.” Nadir spoke gravely, his voice dripping with sadness “When I went into the apartment, I found Meg alive. She is unharmed and with Police, I dropped her at the station on my way here, but Antoinette…I’m so sorry, Erik.” Nadir lowered his head, his eyes closed with reverence for the dead. “She must have sacrificed herself to save her daughter, it appears as though she put up a fight. Her body was in the bedroom, I found Meg hiding in the closet of the same room.”

Erik shut his eyes; he felt the sudden sharp sting of loss. He was not overly familiar with the emotion, but he felt it when he had said goodbye to Nadir’s son, when he left his mother believing it to be what was best for her, when he sailed away from Paris for the last time…

There was no time to mourn, action needed to be taken now. He would have his vengeance once he found Christine. _Dear God, I know I do not deserve to ask you for any favors, but I beg of you, spare her, she has done no wrong...save for loving me,_ he silently prayed.

He had never felt so powerless than he did in this moment, not even when he was enslaved, imprisoned or the time had been left in a desert to die. It was unlikely they would have taken her to the warehouse in which he was shot, it would be far too obvious. It was also very likely she was taken as a means to draw him out, which implied they had a plan. They were using Christine as bait.

 _They are going to try to contact me,_ he realized.

“We need to find the Shade.” Erik said aloud.

“I’m going where you go.” Arthur told Erik from his place on the couch. “You need my help.”

“Do not be foolish, boy. You will only manage to harm yourself or get in the way.” Erik scoffed angrily. Arthur had only been on bed red for two weeks. His rib was still trying to mend from its break. One sharp twist could sever the delicate progress his bone had made in stitching itself together.

“I love her, Erik. I need to do something!” Arthur argued, sounding like a young martyr ready to lay down his life. It was admirable, but Erik knew it was foolhardy.

The ringing of an alarm interrupted their heated back and forth, a shill sounding bell that was painful to the ears.

“What is that?” Arthur cried, placing his hand over his ears.

“Someone has accessed the office in the Gilded Cage. The door was locked, which means someone has broken in.” He walked over to the hidden panel in the wall and depressed it to display an image of the office made possible by an ingenious camera obscura device he had placed in select rooms of the club. “Nadir, we have company.” Erik stated with eerie calm, he had cleared his emotions aside and allowed the calculating hunter to take over.

“Lawrence…” Arthur breathed, “He may have been killed.”

Erik strolled towards a panel on the other side of the room, the panel which displayed the stockroom, and quickly accessed it. “They have dragged Lawrence into the stockroom.”

Nadir glanced past Erik and nodded. “It looks like an interrogation.”

Erik turned his gaze toward Nadir and gave a sickening grin. “Watch.” He pulled a brass lever inside the panel, causing one of the invading men, whose image appeared as a ghostly reflection, relayed by dozens of mirrors, fell through a void which appeared in the stockroom floor.

Moments later a loud thump was heard behind the wall as the intruder was dropped neatly into the confines of the torture chamber.

The rest of the men in the phantom image of the stockroom fled, leaving Lawrence behind, who lay in a heap upon the floor. “Nadir, take the gun from my desk. Go upstairs and tell me the status of the club. I want to know about any casualties and if there are any men of the Shade left behind. I will stay and question our ‘guest’.”

Nadir did not question his directive, instead walking over to Erik’s desk and removing the gun from the interior of its wooden case. Erik did not bother to watch him make his hasty exit, instead moving towards the bedroom to view into the torture chamber from the hidden window. He vaguely heard Arthur getting up from the sofa with a deep groan of pain and follow him but was too focused on his task to care.

“You have so many secrets in this house.” Arthur commented with amazed disbelief as Erik removed the wooden panel covering the window to the torture chamber. He had designed the window to stand at eye level, much easier than his older model which required a small ladder to access. “What is this?”

Erik looked at the man inside the lit space, surrounded by a reflected forest and countless copies of himself, bewildered. “A torture chamber.” He replied with ease, as though everyone had one in their home. “Let us see if heat exposure will influence our new friend to offer Christine’s location.” He spoke darkly, the threat in his voice apparent.

“Why do you have something like this in your house?” Arthur was aghast.

“For moments such as this.” Erik coldly replied.

The man inside the chamber was banging on the thick glass of the mirrors surrounding himself, yelling unintelligibly.

“Do cease your shouting, Monsieur.” Erik spoke into a funnel near the window, built to enable him to speak directly into the chamber. “We can hear you quite fine through the wall.”

“Where am I?” The man demanded.

“Can you not tell?” Erik toyed with the man, “You are in an African forest. I daresay, it must be growing quite warm in there. I wonder how long you will last; most men can make it an hour, two at most. I feel I may need to increase the temperature in your case, I do not have the time to wait for your demise. But, I must admit, as a scientist I am quite interested in how quickly you will expire should I raise the temperature to its maximum. I have never before subjected an individual to such torment.”

He left the bedroom to reenter the sitting room. The controls for the chamber were located near the observation panel for the stockroom. Here he could increase the amount of electricity being fed into the heating lamps which caused the reflective hexagonal box to rise to oven hot temperatures. His skeletal fingers turned the knob to its maximum power and returned to the bedroom where a very intrigued Arthur stood at the observation window, staring in great interest at the man inside the chamber. He looked like an intrigued child staring at a great beast in a zoo.

“You will begin to feel an increase in temperature.” Erik spoke to the man inside the chamber, who was now visibly dripping glistening sweat and panting like a wounded animal. He had already removed his black jacket, which lay crumbled on the floor, and had begun to unbutton his linen shirt to keep cool. “Tell me what you know about the Shade and the abduction of a woman named Christine and I shall let you free.”

It was a lie, the man would never leave the chamber alive, but nobody needed to know that.

The man inside sat on the reflective floor of the torture chamber and began to laugh darkly. He raised his head up, as though taking in a lovely ray of sunshine, but the pain on his face was evident. “They will return her to you piece by piece.” The man said through the wall with a weak, sadistic chuckle.

The rage boiled inside Erik’s chest, he wanted to go into the chamber and tear the man’s limbs from his body and beat him to death with them. He wished to offer the man a brutal, savage death. _We shall see how stubborn you are when the heat rises and your skin starts to burn from your body,_ he thought.

“Erik!” Nadir called from the sitting room, now returned from his speedy mission up above.

“The bedroom, Daroga.” Erik’s eyes did not leave the window looking into the chamber.

Nadir emerged into the bedroom. “Erik,” he sighed, “You built a chamber in your house?”

“Must I explain myself to everybody?” He growled, “This is not the time for such discussions. What are the circumstances upstairs?”

“A patron must have contacted police, the club is swarming with them. There are four casualties, Lawrence and three patrons.” He informed Erik with all the professionalism of a seasoned police officer. Behind the two men, Arthur, who still stood watching in morbid fascination at the dying man in the torture chamber, sighed deeply at the news of his fallen acquaintance.

“Why didn’t we hear anything?” Arthur asked incredulously.

“We are two stories below ground.” Erik informed him without emotion, his eyes never leaving the man who had slowly removed nearly all of his clothing inside the box. His eyes were staring at the noose prominently hanging from the iron tree at the end of the chamber, they were filled with horror. Erik could only imagine the heat inside the chamber was enough to kill a man in a matter of several minutes. By this point, the man’s skin was beginning to blister from the heat, as he slowly cooked.

Erik moved his thin lips to the brass funnel to throw his voice into the room. For a few minutes he made the man believe that he was beginning to lose his mind, that he was hearing demons perched upon his shoulder who threated to do far worse to him than the heat of the mirrored death box could.

The three men watched in rapt horror for minutes as the man burned and baked before them, rapidly dying before their very eyes.

“You haven’t much time, Monsieur. Where is she?” Erik demanded once more to the man in the box, who had dropped helplessly to his knees, using the cloth of his discarded clothing to insulate himself from the heat of the floor. He was struggling to breath as dehydration, and immense heat exposure took him over. The heat would be akin to being placed just above the hot flames of a fire and slowly roasted.

“Brooklyn. A church.” The man weakly replied. “The Shade operates from a church, she’s there.”

“What church?” Erik demanded.

“A few blocks from the Williamsburg bridge, it looks abandoned, but it’s not, the Shade owns it.” The man wheezed, “Please, let me out.”

“Who is the Shade?” Erik demanded

“I don’t know.” The man replied pitifully, so low Erik had to strain his sharp hearing to make out the words. “He just calls himself the Shade.”

“What does he look like?” Erik asked, he knew the man was slipping away fast. “Is there something that distinguishes him from others?”

“I don’t know. He’s got red hair, always wears a soft felt hat…please.” He pleaded.

“I believe this is all the information we will glean from this asset.” Erik coldly informed the two men. “We need to move, now.”

“You aren’t going to let him out, are you?” Arthur asked, there was a bit of malice laced in his voice. Erik turned towards the young man, who face was still bruised but healing well, just the lingering black eye and red sclera.

“I was not planning to, should I?” He asked with curiosity.

Arthur shook his head. “They took Christine, they killed Lawrence, Keenan, more innocent people than we can count.” He replied.

Erik nodded. “It has been spoken.”

The three men moved to leave the underground, but Erik turned to halt Arthur. “You stay.” He said sternly. “You will only serve to get into the way. We cannot afford that now.”

Arthur stood there, dejected, but nodded with understanding. The young man was smart, Erik knew he understood how important this mission was, that he accepted his own limitations. Still, he found he was growing a begrudging fondness for the young man who had served as such a genuine friend to Christine over the past few months.

Erik pointed to the control panel of the torture chamber. “Flip that switch when the man in the chamber has expired, we want to kill him not cook him.”

With that last chilling sentence, he turned on his heel and left with Nadir following close.

“There are more weapons in the trunk of the Phantom.” Erik told Nadir as they made their way through the pitch of the labyrinth. “We may need them when we arrive to the Church. You know my feelings on guns, but I will not take any chances this time.”

“I won’t ask why you keep weapons in your vehicle, just as I will not ask why you felt so inclined to construct a replica of that ridiculous torture chamber in the comfort of your own home.”

“You’ve seen its purpose.” Erik replied dismissively.

When the two men entered the garage where the Phantom was parked, they heard the faint wail of sirens through the portal leading outside.

“We will need to exit and drive away quickly.” Erik announced as he moved quickly to the other side of the vehicle, entering the driver’s side door to sit inside. Nadir flew to the wall, accessing the bulky latch, raising the door to reveal the dark alleyway. The roar of the Phantom’s engine broke through the sound of sirens, echoing against the brick alley’s sharp acoustics.

Erik backed the Phantom out of the garage as Nadir hastily pulled the garage door closed and flew to the passenger’s side to enter the cab. As they pulled out of the alley, they saw the large crowd of bystanders who had gathered to curiously watch the scene of police carrying a dead man in a fine evening suit out of the Gilded Cage on a flimsy stretcher. Patrons and staff were being asked questions by uniformed officers. The whole scene was chaotic and surreal.

A police officer noticed as they pulled out of the alley, made eye contact with Erik and moved to approach the vehicle at the sight of a masked man so near the scene of the crime. Erik did not allow the officer a chance to draw close, pealing out onto the street and speeding down the road, weaving in and out of traffic.

The drive to Brooklyn was jerky and reckless, as Erik used any means necessary to cut time off the trip, lights were ignored, near collisions occurred, the occasional sidewalk was used to pass stopped vehicles, and weaving through traffic at high speeds as vehicles honked their horns at them. Nadir held his hands on the dashboard as though to steady himself through the whole drive, occasionally yelling out, _‘Erik you nearly hit that man!’_ or _‘I’m going to be sick!’_ or _‘We can’t rescue her if we’re dead!’._

They drew the attention of a police vehicle which was parked, the officer struggled to start his vehicle to chase after them, but by the time he had gotten the automobile into traffic it was far too late to catch up. It would be remarkably difficult to outrun a Rolls Royce Phantom.

They flew over the Williamsburg Bridge, a beautifully engineered steel suspension bridge built nearly two decades prior. Traveling as fast as the sleek luxury vehicle could carry them, they crossed the East river, black as ink, dotted with the occasional light from a waterborne vessel. The lights of Brooklyn loomed ahead, the banks of the river dim, the docks were often dark at night save for the lamp lit here and there to aid dockworkers in their tasks.

They began their search for the abandoned church on the other side of the Brooklyn bridge. Driving up and down streets, following a systematic grid, the night was eerie and still in this neighborhood. Primarily used for industry, with streets lined with warehouses and factories. If they rolled down the window, they would catch the unmistakable dark odor of burnt sugar, a sickly-sweet smell which penetrated the neighborhood since the American sugar factory and refinery opened its doors in the late 1800’s.

The church stood out like a sore thumb, stuck between two small brick warehouses. It was a dingy, run down little thing, with a broken steeple and peeling pale paint. It looked like a dying building, forgotten, unloved, surrendered to the harsh elements. It was an odd placement for a church, which made finding it remarkably easy. They drove around the block to park the vehicle, an attempt to avoid suspicion.

Both men exited the car as though the seats they sat in were on fire. Erik strode to the trunk and opened the hatch to reveal an empty space. His long fingers traced the edge of the trunk’s bottom. With a click, he raised the metal sheeting to reveal a secret compartment full of weaponry.

“I will say, this is an instance where I am grateful you have an arsenal at your ready disposal within the trunk of your vehicle.” Nadir murmured with attempted humor but, given the circumstances, it fell flat.

“I will go in first, I will assess the situation.” Erik spoke, dismissing Nadir’s attempt at levity. “Wait for me by the building on the right-hand side of the church. The church’s right, understand?”

Nadir nodded. “The building’s right when looking toward the street?”

“Precisely.”

The two men made their way down the grim, black street, armed to the teeth, unsure what to expect when they finally made it into that rotting old church

Of all the things Erik was certain, he would not leave before he had splattered the blood of the Shade all over the walls of that building.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * I know some of you are upset about Mme Giry. It was a difficult thing for me to include in the story, but it only serves to prove how dangerous a man like the Shade really is.
> 
> * The American Sugar factory later became known as the Domino sugar factory. When I lived in a repurposed warehouse in Bed-Stuy, on the border with Williamsburg, I used to walk by this building every day on my way to work and even when it was abandoned you could smell the unmistakable fragrance of burnt sugar coming from its old, brick bones.
> 
> * There is no historical church that I know of that existed in Williamsburg near the location of the one mentioned in this story, I took this small liberty in adding this one bit of fiction to this otherwise researched tale. Something about a show down at an old church just seems more cinematic.
> 
> Thanks so much for all the great feedback!!! :)


	37. The Man in the Soft Felt Hat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They were only just in time. A shade, this time carrying no light, just a shade in the shade, passed. It passed close to them, near enough to touch them.
> 
> They felt the warmth of its cloak upon them. For they could distinguish the shade sufficiently to see that it wore a cloak which shrouded it from head to foot. On its head it had a soft felt hat. …
> 
> It moved away, drawing its feet against the walls and sometimes giving a kick into a corner.
> 
> “Whew!” said the Persian. “We’ve had a narrow escape; that shade knows me and has twice taken me to the managers’ office.”
> 
> “Is it someone belonging to the theater police?” asked Raoul.
> 
> “It’s someone much worse than that!” replied the Persian, without giving any further explanation.
> 
> (Text from Gaston Leroux's The Phantom of the Opera)

** Chapter Thirty-Seven: The Man in the Soft Felt Hat **

****

It was the sound of an engine which awoke her, bringing her fast out of a terrible haze of unconsciousness. How long she had been swimming in the inky black unconsciousness was difficult to determine. What she did know was that she awoke in a small, enclosed space that was pitch black. Under her body was the deep rumbling vibration of an automobile. The sharp, pungent odor of petrol filled her nostrils. She was moving, which brought the realization that she was nestled inside the boot of a motor car. Her hands and feet were tightly bound with a coarse rope, so tight they were cutting into her flesh.

She remembered things, the mess on the dining room table, the three men, the salty sweat of the meaty palm covering her face. Her thoughts flew to the Girys. The men had said they were waiting for over a day, they did not know she was residing elsewhere. Guilt fell heavy upon her, weighing like a thousand pounds. Was she to blame for anything that had happened to Antoinette and Meg?

An eternity creeped by as she sat in the trunk, rocking and shifting with the movement of traffic, before the motor car came to a complete stop. She heard the grinding of the car being shifted into a its parking gear, felt the rocking of the vehicle as the men exited and three doors slammed shut. Outside, she heard the crunching of boots upon gravel as the men moved towards the boot. A latch was released and the door to the trunk was lifted. A dim streetlamp illuminated behind the men, showing only their dark silhouettes against a faint golden glow.

“Scream and we’ll hurt ya.”, one of the men told her gruffly.

The same large hands that had held her in the Giry’s apartment reached into the interior of the trunk and roughly grabbed her, bruising her in the process. Her body was tossed over the man’s shoulder and he began to walk down the lowly lit street of an industrial neighborhood. Her head was hanging upside down, all she could see was the back of the legs of the man who carried her and the ground, but if she turned her head, she could see the warehouses as they passed by, moving towards an unknown destination.

They ascended a short set of steps and her heard the hinges of a door as it was accessed. The smell of musty, decayed wood filled her senses. There was just enough illumination for her to see the wood floor of the building. Then they began to pass by benches, pews…they were inside a church she realized. Everything looked forgotten, depressed, as though left to the elements to die. It looked as though the church attendees had collectively lost their belief in the existence of God, left, and never came back, leaving the place to rot.

She was carried through the chapel and through a passage leading to a short flight of stairs which led down to a hallway.

“Ah,” she heard a voice cut through the dark. “You’ve brought her. Put her in the basement and we will begin shortly.”

“Yes, sir.”, the man replied and began to carry her down the hallway. She turned her head to see the man who had given the order. His eyes were dark, beady, gleaming with a malicious glint beneath the brim of the soft felt hat he wore upon his head. It was impossible to tell his age, but he was much older with thin lines covering his gaunt face. His hair was a brilliant shade of red, she had seen that similar shade before…

She was carried quickly down another flight of stairs into a brick basement where she was carelessly thrown to the unforgiving, damp floor. There was the odor of stagnant water and mold down in this room, lingering thick in the heavy, humid air. A single incandescent lightbulb hung from its wire which looked exposed and dangerous. The bulb flickered and buzzed as it gave off a pitiful amount of light.

The large man sat at the bottom of the stairs, the wood creaking loudly as his weight settled upon its termite eaten frame. His gaze was penetrating her, and she found herself incredibly uncomfortable with the predatory stare, like he would devour her if he was given the chance. He could do anything to her, and she would be powerless to stop him.

Only a few minutes passed before she heard the door at the top of the stairs groan as it was opened, and a pair of heavy footsteps descended the old wooden stairs. The man, from earlier in the hall, emerged into the light’s radius.

“It seems we finally found the proper cheese to catch the rat.”, he spoke into the moist air of the basement. “That masked paramour of yours has proven to be quite the little thorn in my side.” He gestured to the large man on the steps, “Cut the bindings on her hands, I require them free, but hold her in place.”

The man obeyed his orders, lifting her off the cool, dank concrete floor of the basement and cutting the binds on her wrists. The blood rushed to her deprived hands, which began to tingle with pins and needles as they awoke. Strong hands grabbed her fiercely, twisting her left arm behind her back painfully while the other held her right arm straight out front.

“You’re the Shade.”, Christine said through gritted teeth.

“I see my reputation proceeds me.”, he gave a mock bow. “I had anticipated sending a message to our little masked friend, but it seems he has continued to upset my plans. Therefore, I will simply glean the information I require from you.” His hands reached into his pocket and pulled out small box of toothpicks. “There was a night in which two of my men were killed while one, my son, was left alive. He told me of a secret door which enters through the side of that club. We have been unable to find a way into that entry. It’s as if the construction is seamless, but I have a feeling you may know.”

“I don’t.”, Christine answered truthfully. “I’ve been through it, but I do not know the way in. Even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”

“We will see.”, he retrieved a toothpick from the box and looked up at the man holding her. “Hold that arm still.”

The grip on her wrist tightened as the Shade took the toothpick and shoved it deep beneath the fingertip of her index finger. The resulting pain was excruciating, she let out a sharp whimper.

“I don’t! He’s never shown me how.”, she confessed. He seemed to believe her and nodded.

“I apologize for the barbarism, Ms. Daaé.”, the Shade almost purred, making quite clear that he enjoyed this form of torture. “My son was found in Central Park, he had been killed…by your friend, I believe. You must forgive me if I feel a small amount of retribution.”

“Your son tried to kill us.”, Christine muttered, the tip of her finger felt as though it was on fire. The wood was still imbedded fully beneath her fingertip.

The Shade retrieved a second toothpick from the box. “All sinners must pay the price. Not only are you breaking the law, but you are disobeying the law of God.” He pushed the tip of the toothpick under her middle fingernail only far enough to cause slight pain. “However, my business with your masked friend is personal. I wish to make him pay for what he did to my boy.” With those last threatening words, he shoved the toothpick far under her second fingernail, causing her to cry out. “Tell me, where does he live? My men have been unable to locate an address for his residence, only the Persian’s…perhaps we ought to pay him a visit as well?”

She shook her head, her bottom lip quivering. “I won’t tell you.”

It continued this way, with his questions and her denial, until all five fingers of her hand had been painfully skewered. Christine refused to tell the Shade of Erik’s residence, despite how badly she wanted to just to get the torture to end.

The Shade looked up at the man holding her and nodded, “Release her,”, he ordered, “It appears we will need to use more persuasive methods.”

She dropped to the floor and looked in shock at the deeply imbedded toothpicks under her fingernails. With shaking fingers, she tried to withdraw the agonizing, sharp sticks of wood. As the men ascended the stairs, Christine looked up at their shadows with anger-filled eyes.

“Even Jesus consumed wine, it’s in the bible.”, she called out to the Shade, her voice thick with frustration and unshed tears, “Your logic is flawed.”

The stairs stopped their creaking as the Shade stopped at the top of the stairs. “That book was written by men, Christine, and men are quite corruptible. I speak with God myself; I find first-hand information to be far more credible.” The door at the top of the stairs opened and was shut with considerable force, followed by the metallic scraping of a bolt moving into place.

 _He is insane,_ Christine realized, _absolutely mad._

She pulled the skirt of her dress, now soiled and covered in the grime from the floor, up above her thigh. Despite the throbbing pain in her hand, she was focused on survival. The leather garter holding the elegant retractable knife was in its place. The bounds tying her feet together were quicky cut with the razor-sharp double blade.

Curling up beneath the nook beneath the stairs, she held the knife in her tight, shaky grip and waited for the men to come back down. The knife was her only hope for getting out of here. The basement had a dirty covered window at the far end, but it was far too small to escape from.

Up above, through the door of the basement, came the strange sound of voices, as though a dozen people were loudly chanting. Words could not be made out; they were probably in the chapel, too far from where she was. The repetitive, cult-like drone of the voices gave her arms goosebumps. The Shade believed he was doing God’s work by taking down prohibition law breakers. Somehow, that made him seem even more dangerous, more desperate, more eager to do harm.

The eerie ceremonial voices filtered into the basement from up above for nearly an hour, though it was very difficult to ascertain the exact time without a timepiece. Occasionally the chants would stop, and she could hear a dominant voice performing some sort of sermon. All the while she stayed curled up in her corner, clutching the knife in her aching hand.

The silence eventually fell upon the building. When she heard the door at the top of the stairs open, she tucked her right hand behind her to obscure the weapon. A pair of heavy footsteps descended the stairs, the same large man as before entered into the light. In his hands he held a length of rope and a small, lightweight chair. He looked around the seemingly empty room until he spotted her in her place tucked beneath the stairs where the light failed to touch.

“Come here.”, he gruffly ordered.

Christine shook her head. The man sighed deeply in frustration, dropping the chair and lumbering towards her. He leaned forward to grab her, his face moving close to hers. She did not allow herself to think, she simply acted by instinct, lashing out with the deadly blade of the knife. The blade hit his brow and sunk, quickly and grotesquely, deep into his left eye. She could feel the blade going slickly through the viscera, the vibration of metal grinding upon the bone of the skull reverberated through the handle of the knife.

His features sagged and he made a guttural groan, falling face down upon the filthy concrete floor beneath the stairs. Christine let out a mortified whimper. The heart inside her chest was slamming against her ribs. She could practically hear her own heartbeat. Every fiber of her being was screaming, but there was something else stirring in her too. There was a terrifying rush that she felt in this very clandestine moment.

She had once asked Erik what he felt when he killed, he had spoken of rage and power. In this terrible moment, she understood exactly what he meant. Tears sprung to her eyes as her mind was flooded with combating emotions, as she battled with feeling remorse and relief at the same time. Murder. She had just committed murder and she may very well be required to commit it again.

The room was still, silent. All she could do now was wait beneath the stairs for her next victim and pray she made it out of this alive.


	38. The Shootout

** Chapter Thirty-Eight: In the Cellar **

****

He heard the voices as he approached the front of the church, a monotonous chanting. It was hypnotic in tone, but there was a lifelessness to the incantation that bordered on chilling. The Shade was said to be a religious zealot, focused on one goal alone, the eradication of prohibition breakers whom he had deemed sinners. If he were simply an organized crime lord, he could be bought or haggled with, but he believed he had a spiritual calling, making things exceptionally more complicated. There was no other course save death for the Shade.

Given the number of voices, a combination of both men and woman, coming forth from the church, Erik had calculated there must be at least thirty individuals inside. The windows of building had been boarded up firmly. Seeing inside the building was not possible from the outside, he would be required to enter the unfamiliar interior of the space. He pressed his body against the wooden exterior of the dilapidated building, the rough, peeling wood catching on the fine material of his suit jacket. Silence fell upon the little church, followed by the sound of a crowd moving towards the front door. He flew around the corner to avoid detection, observing the group of people as they exited the building, men and women dressed casually and murmuring among one another, dissipating down the sidewalk. They did not appear to pose an immediate threat, he only hoped Nadir had the good sense to stay out of sight until the crowd had left the area.

Stealthily moving towards the back of the church, Erik sought another way in. The front door was far too exposed, the chapel too large with little places to duck and cover in the event of a shootout. He was certain his gun was far more lethal than anything they would be carrying. A Thompson submachine gun can unload a deadly twenty rounds per second, earning it the appropriate nicknames ‘Annihilator’ and ‘Street Sweeper’, but most called it simply ‘The Tommy Gun’. Erik had a firm distaste for guns, they felt too barbaric, too impersonal, robbing the soul of murder entirely. Death ought to be performed as an art, and the gun was the equivalent of simply dumping a bucket of paint on a canvas and putting it in a frame.

There was a back entry into the church, with hinges that looked almost impossibly rusted. A sigh escaped him. Entry into the church was only feasible through the front door. It was time to get Nadir, they may need the extra gunfire.

Like a fleeting shadow, he moved around the building on the right of the church. When he found Nadir, the Persian was tucked around the corner of the building. Nadir was looking out onto the street with his back turned towards Erik. Erik threw his voice into Nadir’s ear to alert him of his approach. The Persian noticeably flinched with surprise and turned around.

“There is no way in but the front.” Erik told him as he approached. “It is quite possible we will need to use brute force the moment we enter the building. I was unable to observe the conditions inside. When I raided their warehouse with Luciano’s men, we were greeted with gunfire. We must expect the same here was well.”

Nadir looked down at his own Tommy gun. “I admit, I have never shot one of these before.”

“It is like any other gun, the only difference is its ability to massacre rather than simply kill.”, Erik replied as he began to lead to way to the front of the church. The two well-armed men fell silent and padded carefully down the sidewalk towards the church.

They carefully ascended the short flight of steps toward the front double doors, guns raised and ready to shoot. Nadir placed his hand on the handle of one door and looked to Erik. Their eyes met with an understanding of the carnage that would most likely take place once that portal was opened. Erik gave a very sure nod and Nadir threw the door open to allow Erik in first. Nadir ducked in right behind his masked partner.

There were only a handful of men sitting in the pews when they made their ambush into the gloomy, drab, poorly illuminated chapel of the church. Heads swiveled in their direction with a surprised expression on their faces. _Should have locked the door,_ Erik thought sardonically.

The startled men sprung to their feet at the sight of the two well-dressed men who had just burst through their door, but it was most likely the sight of the masked man that truly motivated their quick action.

“Do not hesitate to shoot.”, Erik told Nadir who stood at the ready behind him as he watched the men stare dumbly in his direction, formulating how to respond. It would be a fool’s errand to charge a man with a Tommy gun.

The entire interaction lasted a whole of a few seconds, before the men finally acted, ducking down behind the church benches. Two men drew their pistols and aimed to fire, but Erik depressed the trigger of his gun, releasing a maelstrom of bullets in their direction before they had a chance to fire back, their bodies convulsing with the impact of the numerous rounds before they dropped like flies to the ground.

The opening of gunfire was the catalyst for two of the other men to pull their guns, one man got one shot off in Erik’s direction, but missed entirely. Nadir opened fire, striking both men with several bullets each while Erik opened fire on the remaining man who tried stood and attempted to run.

With the easy carnage laid before them, Nadir made a strange, satisfied grunt, “That was remarkably easy.”

The words were spoken too soon, for they heard shouting coming from an entrance at the far end of the church. Erik and Nadir migrated down the side aisles, each flanking an opposite side. Men began to funnel out of the entry way, guns in hand, but Erik and Nadir fired a fury of bullets in their direction, gunning them down before they could even fire a shot. The death was too easy for Erik’s liking, but it was certainly more efficient and, with Christine’s life in the hands of these men, he found he cared less in this circumstance. The bodys began to pile into a gross heap at the entrance, making it difficult for the men behind them to advance inside, with warm, sticky blood pooling onto the ground.

When the three men who remained saw the type of weaponry Erik and Nadir were sporting, they immediately turned and fled. Erik’s long legs began to carry him in their direction, chasing behind them with Nadir trailing on his heels. The three men reached the end of the hall and watched in terror as one of the men yanked repeatedly on the handle of the unusable back door. As Erik drew closer, the men dropped their guns and threw up their arms in a last ditch attempt to save their lives.

“Where is the girl?”, Erik demanded.

“The basement!”, one of the men blurted, spittle flying from his quivering mouth.

“Where is the basement?”, Erik furiously replied.

The man who had uttered the location lifted a shaking finger and pointed to an unbolted door on his right.

“Collect their guns, Daroga.”, Erik instructed coolly, “It will do us no good if they shoot us in the back as we make our way down.”

Nadir stepped in front of Erik and gathered the three guns littering the worn, dirty carpet floor of the hall and awkwardly tucked them into his pockets.

Erik approached the door to the basement and turned the stiff, tarnished doorknob with his

slender fingers, the metal squeaking with the motion. Looking down the dark stairs, the bottom illuminated with a faint amount of light, he readied his descent. There were no sounds save the thrumming of the blood in his own ears. The boards of the stairs groaned slightly beneath the weight of his steps. Even a man as silent as himself could not traverse such poorly held together stairs without some noise. Nadir stayed above to keep guard of the three men who had surrendered.

With bated breath, Erik reached the bottom of the steps and looked around the basement, empty, save for the body of a dead man tucked beneath the stairs. He felt a draft and looked up towards the end the basement where the light failed to touch. In the black side of the basement, he could see the brick wall had been smashed away to reveal a narrow tunnel. He himself had used this technique in some of his own tunnels throughout the city. When laying the brick, you use a softer grout in strategic areas, which, when struck, crumble to reveal an escape passage. The brickwork was new, which means the Shade had anticipated he may need it someday.

“Nadir!”, Erik called up the steps, “They’ve taken her through a tunnel.”

He heard Nadir fly down the battered staircase. “I doubt the men above pose a threat now.” He told Erik as he approached the busted wall of the basement. Looking into the seemingly endless tunnel, he gestured, “Lead the way, Erik. You are the lover of trap doors, after all.”

Erik nodded and, together, they both ventured into the Stygian tunnel while three surviving men left the old church, unaware they had encountered the Angel of Death and lived to tell the tale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you are all alive and well!
> 
> We're getting close to the conclusion of this story, maybe 3-4 chapters left. I really appreciate those of you who have stuck with it through the whole thing. I certainly had no idea it would evolve the way that it has and I'm grateful for all the fun feedback.
> 
> I hope you all had a kick out of the image of Erik and Nadir wielding machine guns as much as I did. With everything happening in the world, it sure felt cathartic to write a carnage bath.


	39. Bringing a Knife to a Gunfight

** Chapter Thirty-Nine: Bringing a Knife to a Gunfight **

****

Christine felt a small moment of gratitude for wearing a day dress dress with pockets. When sounds of loud popping came from upstairs, gunshots she eventually realized, the Shade had descended the stairs with a small pistol in his hand. Two men had closely followed behind, one holding a sledgehammer, and she knew she would be outnumbered. Quickly, she tucked the retracted knife in her pocket and prayed they would not notice the dead man she had hidden under the stairs. In the dark corner of the basement, his body was nearly invisible where it had been shoved tightly beneath the tight nook beneath the steps.

She stepped out into the light and held her hands up, a move taken to misdirect their attention from where she had hidden their fallen compatriot. If the Shade had noticed her feet were no longer bound, he did not mention it. The Shade aimed the gun at her and commanded her to move towards the darkest end of the basement. Her eyes nervously darted from the gun to his dark, beady, malice-filled eyes and she complied.

What happened next was a blur, as the man with the sledgehammer walked to the far wall of the basement and slammed the hammer upon the wall. The sound of rapid shooting from above and crumbling mortar combined into a chaotic hodgepodge of sound. As the brick broke away, a tunnel was revealed, and she was forced inside. The air was stale and slightly putrid within the confines of the narrow space.

The gun was pressed to her back, digging hard into her spine with a promise of lethality. The tunnel was pitch dark, but soon a flashlight behind her was turned on, illuminating before her. The brick in the tunnel looked clean, new, perhaps recently constructed. Up ahead, there seemed to be no end, as though she were approaching a mysterious void that would swallow her whole.

They moved down the tunnel for nearly an entire city block before reaching a split. To the left, there was a large round opening to a tunnel, from which came a nauseating smell, it burned the nostrils and made her gag. To the right, there was a similar round opening. The new tunnel had been built to connect to these two older tunnels.

“Move right.”, came the Shade’s nasally voice behind her ear. The metal of the pistol shoved painfully into her back.

Christine complied, alighting herself into the tight round opening which was couple feet off the ground. The tunnel she entered was large, circular and old. Looking down, she saw her kitten heels were sinking in a thin layer of unidentifiable muck. The odor from this tunnel was not nearly as atrocious as the alternative tunnel to the left, but it was certainly not pleasant, reminding her of the smell that comes from a rat dying inside the wall. Her nose was filled with a terrible bouquet of decomposition and mildew.

“Why don’t we just kill her now?”, one of the Shade’s men complained, “She’s only slowing us down.”

“No.”, the Shade barked back as he shadowed Christine’s progress into the new tunnel, “I need to see the look in the eyes of her lover as she dies.”

Christine’s blood stalled in her veins and she was acutely aware of the knife in her pocket, which slapped dully against her thigh with every step. She was certain she would die in these tunnels which smelled of death, that her tomb lay within its filth-covered walls. Inwardly, she made a pledge to take down the Shade before she made it to Death’s doorstep. At the first available chance, she would take down the Shade like she had taken down the man beneath the stairs. All she needed was a perfect opportunity, one which she prayed would eventually reveal itself.

“I know you’re mourning your son,”, the man continued to argue, “I wonder if it’s clouding your better judgement. Your sense of vengeance is only dooming us.”

Christine jumped when she heard the gun go off, echoing shrilly in the tubular confines of the tunnel. Her hands flew to her body, as though to find a wound there that she could not feel, her ears ringing. There was no pain, no blood. Behind her, she heard the sound of a body fall to the ground.

 _Oh God, He’s just shot his own man for questioning him,_ Christine realized.

“Why?!”, the other man cried.

“He was turning away from the cause.”, the Shade cruelly replied. “We have had too many defectors. If it had not been for those weaklings, Keenan and Regina, and their sudden change of heart, we would never have been in this position. I’ll have no tolerance for any man who dare argue my authority, for it has been ordained by God himself. Now,”, he shoved the barrel of gun into Christine’s shoulder blade, “Keep moving.”

The party, now reduced to three, continued to progress down the old tunnel, which seemed endless. Her hand dipped into her pocket and touched the cool handle of the knife, as though it were a magic talisman that would offer her good fortune.

After a long trek deep into the tunnel, they reached a long cement chamber with a high ceiling. Running down the center of the chamber was a manmade river, the water murky and unsanitary in nature. The water was rushing into a large pipe below them as it continued its subterranean journey to a deeper destination. The air was sharp in odor, it reminded Christine of a very pungent cheese. Above each side of the river, there were service walkways with rusted metal railings which looked far too flimsy to prevent workers from falling into the rushing water below. Under different circumstances, the gurgling sound of water echoing about the chamber would have been almost peaceful.

“To the left.”, the Shade commanded over the noise,

Christine held onto the slender, rough, rusted railing as she walked along the narrow walkway, only half the width of a regular sidewalk. For a moment, she considered jumping over the railing and taking her chance in the foreboding black sewage. It would be suicide, she would soon be sucked down into that large pipe and sent to a watery grave. Would it be preferable to drown rather than die at the hands of the Shade?

“Wait,”, she heard the Shade’s man say, “I thought I saw something on the other side.”

Their party halted in their place, the Shade raised his electric torch and pointed its gold beam in the direction of the opposite walkway. Christine strained her eyes trying to see into the dark places the light did not touch, praying she would see Erik, but it was impossible to make out any shapes. The barrel of that horrible gun was dug once more into the bone of her spine as the Shade urged her forward, seemingly satisfied that there were no more trespassers in the chamber.

As Christine neared the end of the walkway, there came a gross, guttural sound, followed by the twisting shriek of broken metal and a gigantic splash. The Shade’s man began to yelp and cry from down below. In shock, the Shade threw the beam of his torch towards the sound to see the man flailing about in the wet waste. Christine could see the thin railing had broken and the man had fallen, but it seemed too lucky a coincidence.

That gun again pressed into her, urging her to continue as the screaming voice of the panicked man, begging for help, could be heard until it was finally silenced. She knew he had been sucked into that pipe and the image which appeared in her head was haunting. She sensed a familiar presence and, looking to her right, she saw the gold glow of those eyes she had grown to know so well. It had been him. He had been the cause of the man’s sudden plummet. Somehow he must have thrown the lasso about the man to cause his fall over the edge of the rail, a remarkable feat considering the little light he had to work with and the distance in which he stood.

The Shade halted behind her, and he suddenly asked, “Did you hear that voice?”

“No,” she replied, then her tone turned that of mockery, “Perhaps God is speaking to you?”

“I swear,”, he mumbled, sounding half mad, “I just heard a voice…shhh…there it is again!”

Christine remained silent, but when she looked again to her right, she saw the glow of those eyes on the other side of the river.

Up ahead, there was an entrance to a new tunnel on the right. Reaching into her pocket, Christine wrapped her delicate finger around the personally crafted handle of the knife and readied for her move.

The Shade must had noticed the two burning points of light in the dark, for he suddenly cried, “Behold! A demon!”

Christine took the sudden distraction of the Shade as a sign. Withdrawing the knife from the confines of her skirt pocket, she quickly depressed the button, releasing the hissing blade. She spun around and blindly slashed at the Shade, striking his neck hard, and causing him to cry out and a warm spray of blood to hit her face. He simultaneously fired a shot, which went into the wall beside her head, and dropped the electric torch, which flew down with barely a splash into the raging water below.

She slashed again with the blade, unable to see a thing in the sudden pitch of the tunnel, but she hit something and could feel the blade as it struck bone. The Shade made a loud grunt and the pistol fired two more shots, the flash of the gun lit up in the dark, just enough for Christine to make out the Shade’s beady eyes. She stabbed at what she believed was his face, the blade making miraculous contact, embedding itself and becoming stuck.

Christine let the knife go and took the opportunity to fly down the tunnel to the right, her feet carrying her as fast as they could, but she smashed into a wall several feet down. Possibly a dead end, up in a space completely devoid of light, it was difficult to tell. Her heart was like that of a rabbit preparing to die, furiously pounding in her chest and her face burned from striking the unforgiving cement wall.

Behind her she heard the light sound of footsteps, and a pair of hands grabbed her. Her mouth opened to issue a soprano scream of horror, but the hand clamped over her mouth.

“Hush, mon petit canari.”, came the smoke and honey voice in her ear and in that moment, she felt as though she truly could fly like a bird. He was there, with her in the dark, holding her tight against his incredibly lean body. She spun around and threw her arms around him, pressing her face flush against his chest and inhaling as much of him as she could. He smelled like gun smoke and spice.

“The Shade.”, she whispered, suddenly coming back to earth and recalling the current circumstance.

“Stay here,”, Erik gently ordered and released her. The cool air covered her once more, his sudden absence was palpable.

A light illuminated at the end of the tunnel, she turned and saw two figures standing at the end, looking down at something upon the ground.

“Come, Christine. It is safe.”, she heard Erik’s voice call to her, bidding her to leave the dead-end tunnel in which she anxiously stood.

As she approached the small halo of light, she was surprised to see Erik standing with Nadir. She was not certain how Nadir had arrived. Was he in the dark with Erik this whole time, waiting for the correct time to intervene? How did they know the direction to follow? She had a million questions to ask, but they all seemed trivial at the moment.

The Persian was holding two very large guns while Erik held an electric hand torch and was shining the beam down at the body laying prone, in a large pool of blood, on the walkway. Erik handed Christine the torch and knelt down to flip the Shades body over. Immediately, she noticed the handle of her knife. She had embedded the blade deeply into the Shade’s neck. His cheek had also been slashed wide open.

Erik’s finger pointed to a gash on the side of the Shades neck. “You struck his jugular first,” He remarked coolly, with only a small hint of praise. “He would have bled out quickly, but this blow,” he tapped the handle of the knife, “This cut into his trachea and finally dropped him.”

His clinical description of the Shade’s death was mostly cold. Christine felt a small amount of appreciation for the detached explanation of how she had murdered the man. It striped the Shade of his humanity, as though he were nothing more than a cut of meat being evaluated by a scrupulous butcher. The entirety of the recent events was difficult to process, Christine felt as though she were submerged underwater, unsure of which way she must swim to reach the surface.

“Is it over?”, Christine asked in a shaking voice, her legs felt terribly weak.

“Yes.”, Erik confidently replied.

Finally, Nadir spoke, “Let’s get out of this godforsaken place, it smells like bad eggs and horse manure.” To that, all three could agree.

As they walked back towards the way they came, they left the body of the Shade, knife still embedded in his neck, laying dead in his own rapidly cooling blood. For a moment, she wondered if they would ever know of the Shade’s real name, but now that he was left to rot, it hardly seemed to matter.

Christine was just relieved the nightmare was finally over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to my avid readers, I hope this was a satisfying end for the Shade. Sometimes a girl needs to save herself, you know? 
> 
> We're nearing the end of this story, which makes me both sad and relieved. I reckon we have one more chapter followed by an epilogue.
> 
> Thanks for that great feedback, everybody. I hope you and your families are all safe and healthy.


	40. Of Endings and Beginnings

** Chapter Forty: Of Endings and Beginnings  **

The sun was shining with unfiltered radiance on the day of the funeral. To Christine, it almost felt like a mockery. Would not overcast weather be more appropriate when laying the body of a loved one deep into the cold ground? Yet, she knew Antionette would be pleased with how beautiful the day of her own funeral had turned out to be, with songbirds singing in the trees and the green grass shining brightly in the sun. The older Giry woman always had a fondness for birds, on their walks through the park she would often point to the winged creatures and identify them.

It was an intimate affair, with only eight in attendance, including the priest and two grave diggers. Antoinette, while a kind and generous woman, had not accumulated many friends in her time here in New York. Despite the low number of attendees, the grief and love were palpable. Meg stood, holding Christine’s hand tightly, as they lowered the lacquered coffin into the freshly dug grave. The younger Giry woman was sniffling. Having cried for days after the loss of her mother, Meg had nearly run out of tears. Christine had stayed with her dear friend for a few days, holding her as she sobbed heavy into the deep of the night, sharing her bed so she could escape the nightmares that plagued her.

Erik had not been at all resistant to her decision to stay in the old apartment to comfort Meg. She thought it odd he was so accepting, but then she discovered he had been breaking into the Girys apartment and lingering in the sitting room on a nightly basis and it explained everything. He was still secretly nervous about keeping her out of his sight after the events with the Shade. When she had shown him her fingernails, all black with blood, he had nearly wept. Holding her hand with reverence he had placed light, lingering kisses on the injured fingers.

 _‘I wish I could resurrect the Shade just so I could torture him to death repeatedly, once for each finger.’,_ he had muttered between whispered apologies and he placed a delicate kiss on the meaty flesh of the heel of her palm.

He had attended the funeral, an action that surprised Christine, insisting that Antoinette was one of the few decent people in the world and he felt it only right. It was startling to see him standing in the bright sun of a warm September afternoon.

Explaining Erik to Meg went much better than she had expected. The little prima ballerina’s jaw dropped when she saw the imposing man who had come to gather them both from the apartment. It was the first time Christine had ever seen her friend speechless.

 _‘I know who you are…the man without a face.’_ , Meg managed to blurt out. _‘I knew the stories were real! You’re the opera ghost, you were friends with my mother…You’re Christine’s employer…oh, everything makes more sense now.’_

Meg had always been a bright woman, a bit of a daydreamer with a penchant for gossip, but bright, nonetheless. It came as no surprise to Christine that her friend would add two and two together when she saw her masked beau. Christine had to bite her lip the entire drive to the church, trying to keep herself from smirking, as Meg asked Erik a thousand questions, to which he had given single worded responses, until they reached their destination. Christine saw the relief in his eyes as he killed the engine to the Phantom where they sat parked out front of the church. Such an intimidating man, and yet, he could be completely undone by a tiny talkative, inquisitive woman.

Nadir was also in the vehicle, yet maintained a quiet stoicism the entire ride, regardless of the long stream of odd inquires made towards Erik by the little ballerina who had wholly ignored the handsome Persian in the automobile. Christine chanced the occasional glance in Nadir’s direction, catching the faint humor in his beautiful jade eyes.

Antoinette was not a particularly devote woman, but she admired beautiful churches. Erik had managed to secure a plot in the cemetery of the very church he had trespassed with Christine all those months ago. It was an easy location for Meg and Christine to visit frequently, to pay their respects and to mourn.

Arthur had met them at the cemetery, having finally left Erik’s home after sufficient healing and returning to his own apartment. He had insisted he attend the grim occasion. He had told Christine that he felt tightly stitched into the tapestry of tragedy that the Shade had woven with his sinister hands. For him, the funeral felt like closure, as though he were laying to rest Regina and Keenan, the two friends he had lost to the whole sordid affair. There were answers they would never receive. Christine and Arthur would never know why Regina and Keenan had been aiding the Shade, nor would they know why they had changed their minds and turned away from his cause.

Meg tossed a bouquet of flowers onto the coffin that now lay at the bottom of the grave and turned to Christine.

“She would have loved this church.”, she said, her voice missing that effervescent quality that Christine knew so well. Reaching out, she took Christine’s hand and together they began to walk away from scene of the men quickly covering the coffin with fresh soil. Arthur followed, keeping a few steps behind them.

Erik was standing with Nadir on the periphery of the quaint cemetery and Christine knew he felt somehow responsible for the events that had taken Antoinette’s life, regardless of how determined Christine had been to tell him otherwise.

“Is it true that he’s dangerous?”, Meg whispered as she glanced over in Erik’s direction, “In Paris there were stories…”

“He is.”, Christine replied, then squeezed Meg’s hand, “But then again, so am I. I killed two men in one night. I suppose in the right circumstance anyone could be dangerous…even you, dear Meg.”

“They were terrible men, you ought not feel sorry for them.”, Meg insisted.

“Yet I do, nonetheless.”, Christine softly admitted. “I still struggle with it all.”

As they drew near to were Erik stood, his mask shining bright in the garish afternoon sun, drawing the attention of sidewalk pedestrians who passed by. The cemetery was charming but situated in the center of a bustling metropolis and lacking true privacy. It spoke volumes to Christine that Erik was so willing to come out in the daylight, and present himself to the ogling crowds, out of respect for Antoinette Giry.

“I think it’s time for me to find my own apartment.” Meg told Christine as the four began to walk back to where the Phantom was parked. “Perhaps uptown.”

“There’s an apartment next to mine which will be available within the week.”, Arthur commented, “It’s right by the Park and a really great café. Perhaps it will be a good place to form new memories.”

Meg displayed interest and accepted Arthur’s number which he jotted down onto a torn-out page of the little writer’s notebook he religiously kept in his pocket. Christine tried not to consider what tantalizing little blurbs he had scrawled within the pages of that thin notebook, else her cheeks bloom red from the saucy imagery.

As the whole party loaded into the Rolls Royce, Christine could not help but feel, for the first time in a very long time, as though she had family. An odd collective of people, yet a family, nonetheless.

She looked out the window of the motor car, watching all the pedestrians and buildings as they streamed by in a fantastic blur of colors and sounds. Her thoughts drifted through all of her recent months, of all the relationships she had found herself in, how the people in this very vehicle were indelibly fixated upon her life, upon her very soul. When she had stepped of the boat from France, did she have any idea of the grand adventure she had begun? Did she know she would experience love and loss in equal measure?

The leaves had begun to change colors in the Central Park trees, a sign of a new coming season. ‘ _Autumn in New York is magical._ ’, Arthur had once told her. The coming of the new season felt like the bringer of change, of endings and beginnings.

Her adventure was not over, it could never be over with a man such as Erik in her life. She felt a certain comfort in knowing that truth, that living with such a man would bear joy and strife. His fickle moods, his eccentric nature, the genius he carried, all promised of wonder and woe. There had been evidence of great change in him over the past months. He could be brutally tender, singularly devoted, and endlessly patient, but he could also be willfully stubborn, arrogant, and frustratingly distant. In the few weeks she had been in his home, caring for both he and Arthur, she had seen how multifaceted his personality could be.

The night after Arthur had finally gone home, they sat in front of the fire speaking of the future. When she and Erik had discussed what he called ‘her destiny to have New York fall at her feet’, she had dismissed it. _‘I do not wish to be famous,_ ’, she had told him with resolve. What she had believed to be a settled matter had turned into a night long heated debate, with Erik quite hot around the collar for what he called her _‘audacity to squander such a divinely given gift.’_ He had never raised his voice to her, but in a moment of passion, he had loomed over her like a great, dark bird of prey, booming with rage until she calmly left the room and secluding herself in the bedroom.

Later that night he had come slinking into bed, with the body language which spoke more of a guilty dog who had been caught rifling through the trash. She lay in bed, wide awake in the dark, waiting for his apology, which he muttered with humility.

 _‘I never said I do not wish to sing, Erik._ ’, she said as she reached out for him in the dark. ‘ _I just do not wish for fame.’_

 _‘So long as you sing with me, I will be appeased, mon petit canari.'_ , He breathed into her ear as his fingers began to wander her body in the dark. She responded by lifting her camisole over her head and offering herself to him, allowing him to feast upon her. He had eagerly devoured her with a frenzy that make her dizzy with delight.

In the car she smirked, perhaps they ought to argue more often if such were the fruits of their conflict.

The future was a vast universe of unknowns, she could not be certain what would happen this day or the next. All she was certain of was her newfound strength, the lessons which had been hard-won these past months, and the love which she felt to her very core for a man who had once terrified her.

Regardless of what the future would bring, she knew she would not face it alone. Despite what Erik said, she shared his golden cage willingly. ‘ _I am your caged canary.’_ , she had whispered at the apex of her pleasure that night. They could never live a fully free life, he was too accustomed to his life in the shadows, but she had found a certain solace in his world, a place where magic is real, where sirens and ghosts and näckens exist, where sound is bliss and a single touch can ignite a raging blaze within her soul.

No matter what, theirs would be a peculiar yet wonderful life indeed.

_Fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! We made it everybody! This is the final chapter of this tale. I hope this was a satisfying ending. There will be an epilogue where we will get to see a little in the future for our intrepid heroes. 
> 
> Thank you so much for all of you who had stayed committed to reading the story, for those of you who left feedback. (Especially when I made errors with the french.)  
> You all were so encouraging. This was my first fiction, my first time writing a story really, and it really kept me pushing through to hear all your kind words.
> 
> Please stay safe and healthy during these unprecedented times.


	41. Epilogue: He Dreamt

** Epilogue: He Dreamt  **

****

****

_New York City, 1930_

Music was coming through the heavy wooden door of his office. The song was atrocious, the voice was ghastly, sounding more like a strangled rodent than a woman. He rolled his eyes and unlatched the door to find Nadir lounging back in the plush chair of his personal desk, humming along to the tasteless music which blared from the horn of a phonograph in the corner.

“Good Lord, what are you listening to?”, Erik said in pained greeting, gritting his teeth as his ears were assaulted by the painful sounds.

“This is Helen Kane.”, Nadir replied with an air of admiration.

“It’s awful. What sort of slang is ‘boop boop de doop’?”, Erik folded his arms over his chest, cocking his head to the side as he considered the thick record spinning on its turntable.

“I’m not sure, but I find her voice quite endearing.”, the Persian replied.

“Kindly remove that refuse from my phonograph.”, Erik commanded with an authoritative air while shooing his partner out of the chair and taking the seat. It was his office, after all, and a man had a right to sit in his own chair.

“Sometimes I believe you intentionally dislike the things I enjoy to torment me.”, Nadir grumbled as he flipped the switch on the phonograph, bringing the music to a blessed halt.

“That is untrue. I intentionally dislike the things you enjoy because they are in poor taste.”, he glanced Nadir’s direction and caught the offended expression written upon his face. “Do not take it personally. I daresay, there are days I wish I had the mindset to enjoy the trivial drivel the masses consume. Ignorance is indeed bliss, you know.”

Erik had failed at keeping up to date with most popular culture. Christine had dragged him into a theatre, a couple years prior, to watch an “all talking” film called ‘The Terror’. The theatre had been quite empty, and they sat far in the back away from others. He did not care for the film from the start, the plot was predictable and dry. He nearly wanted to leave altogether, but Christine’s hands began to wander up his leg in the dark until she began to skirt along his length. Catching her eyes in the dim light of the theatre, the reflection of the film flashing in her beautiful blue irises, he saw her hunger. She offered him a wicked little smirk and welcomed his own hand, which had followed suit by crawling beneath the skirt of her dress. It was then he realized his little minx was far more interested in pushing the boundaries of social acceptability than she was in the derivative tale of horror being projected upon the screen.

They went to the movies quite regularly after that, testing the limits of what they could get away with while the rest of the audience sat oblivious with their eyes riveted to the Hollywood garbage being fed to them. It was exhilarating.

His wife was adventurous and insatiable, she loved the thrill of a secret rendezvous in improper places. Taking him in some of the most bizarre locales, up in the flies of the Metropolitan Opera, for instance, swinging high above the stage on a catwalk, while he covered her mouth to suppress her moans and gritted his teeth stop his own. Chatter about the Opera Ghost had increased, stories about the Opera Ghost and his ghost bride began to accumulate about the building.

He would take her around his future building, throwing his voice to terrify the stage crew, and watch her cover her hand over her mouth as she giggled with pure delight at the frightened faces of the men below. This was a part of his world that he now enjoyed sharing with another. Life as a ghost was certainly less lonely these days.

One evening, during an opening performance of Faust, Joseph Buquet, a stagehand, drunk on bootleg liquor, lost his balance and tumbled off his perch, entangling himself in the coarse rope of the flies as he plummeted. The fall snapped his spine and killed him instantly, much to the abject horror of the audience and performers on the stage. It was a wonder nobody else was harmed.

The Opera Ghost was blamed, yet he had a perfect alibi. He and Christine were indisposed upon the plush carpet flooring of his private opera box, thoroughly ignoring Carlotta’s devastating rendition of The Jewel Song.

The diva’s scream was certainly no more painful to the ear than her singing and she wailed while Buquet’s broken body swung only a few meters above the stage. Pandemonium broke out in the theatre and Erik had scrambled to get his trousers buttoned. He shuffled Christine towards their usual back entrance, all the while shouts about the Phantom of the Opera and Joseph Buquet bounced about the hallways as they made their exit.

 _“As if he required my assistance to meet his demise, he certainly fared well enough on his own.”_ , he later grumbled in bed while Christine mounted him and began to finish what they had started in the box. He grasped her hips and held them, halting her skillful movement. _“Please rethink your aversion to fame. As lovely as it is to have you in my box during performances, I long to hear you take the role of Marguerite. We’ve worked so hard; your voice is ready.”_

 _“I will consider it,”_ , she murmured as she nibbled on the lobe of his ear and he began to encourage her hips to move once more.

She was a witch, he was certain, for she had utterly trapped him in a world of magic. His sad little world had only grown since she entered it. A few years prior, had you told him he would actually have the company of friends in his home, he would have told you that you were quite wrong in the head. Yet, regularly, he found himself, sitting at tea, with Arthur and Nadir, discussing politics, while Meg and Christine baked biscuits in the kitchen. He would never had thought his life could look such a way, full of lightness and love.

Meg had struggled with the loss of her mother, a loss for which he, himself, carried a significant burden of guilt. The little prima ballerina had moved from the apartment in Greenwich Village and rented a charming, flat which sat directly next door to Arthur.

Christine had come home on one of her days out with Meg, snickering like a contented schoolchild.

 _‘What is so humorous?_ ’, Erik demanded

 _‘Oh, poor Meg.’_ , Christine sputtered between fits of laughter, as though the thought of the thing were so funny it had robbed her of her ability to speak in a meaningful sentence. Eventually, she had managed to calm her fits enough to relay her story. _‘Meg had been chasing poor Arthur for months. Poor thing was feeling quite smitten with him, yet he didn’t seem to recognize her advances. She was in such poor spirits. We were sitting on her couch looking at some dress advertisements when we began hearing moaning coming through the wall. She was certain her building was haunted. She said the Opera Ghost must have followed her home! But later, as we were leaving, we caught Arthur and a man exiting his apartment together. Meg put two and two together and I have never seen her so embarrassed! She turned as red as a ripe beet!’_ , she continued to laugh, doubled over as she clutched her belly.

 _‘I hardly think it is kind to jest at the girl’s broken heart.’_ , Erik gently scolded.

Christine playfully slapped his thin shoulder, _‘She is not broken hearted, Meg falls in love with a new man every few weeks.’_

The people they had in their lives now, Nadir, Meg and Arthur, had all attended his small marriage to Christine. Legally speaking, it was a sham, his papers were all perfect forgeries. Yet all of that hardly mattered when they stood before one another and vowed themselves to the other completely.

He had a living wife, a thing he had only dreamed of in fleeting moments as one would a mythological creature that could not possibly exist. Yet here she was, his golden goddess was his wife.

Erik purchased his very own rail car, decorated inside entirely in the style of Victorian baroque. It had all the comforts of a small apartment, including a green marble fireplace. Together, he and his wife, traveled around the country. They admired the strange and beautiful terrain of New Mexico, Utah and the Mojave Dessert. They ate ripe oranges, plucked straight from a tree in California, and found themselves lost in the thick of its lush Redwood Forests, the tallest trees either of them had ever seen. Together they explored the bayous and swamps of the south, Christine gasped at the sight of an alligator snapping a bird from the water only feet away from their tiny little boat. They stayed in cozy little inns in New England, walking along the colored fall leaves of the forests. Erik was fascinated with the enormous diversity of natural beauty found in a single continent.

The fateful day came in October 1929. They had just returned home from a trip to New Orleans a day prior. Erik woke to ringing in the sitting room. Disentangling himself from the resting limbs of his beloved, he begrudgingly made his way to the screaming telephone.

 _‘It had better be good, Nadir. I was in heaven just now and you’ve cruelly yanked me from it.’_ , he rasped, his voice thick with the aftermath of sleep.

 _‘Erik,’_ , Nadir responded with a grave seriousness “It has happened. Just as you predicted.’

 _‘I have predicted many things, Daroga.’_ , Erik sighed, rubbing his unmasked face.

_‘Erik the Stock Market has crashed.’_

The statement sent a wave of conflicting feelings. He had poised himself for this very moment, like a spider suspended on its toes, just waiting for the fly to land.

 _‘This is very good for us,’_ , Erik stated, _‘But it will be a tragedy for countless.’_

When had he begun to care for the welfare of strangers?

The crash proved to have the effect that he had expected, ruining the owners and managers of the Metropolitan Opera, which he swooped in and purchased for a song. It also proved to destroy the industrial world, becoming the catalyst of mass unemployment. He found himself paying his own employees far more so they could support their extended family members.

The club and the smuggling had continued to be lucrative, lining his pockets more so during the economic recession than it had prior. It seemed that more individuals were much more willing to push the boundaries of Prohibition law than ever before. He knew it was only a matter of time before the ridiculous law was eventually disbanded, but in the meantime, he was stockpiling wealth. Arthur had become such a valued member of his business, of his life even, that he made the young man a partner in his business at the Gilded Cage. Arthur still published highly illegal works of literature, and Erik found his wife reading them in private, her face rapt with anticipation as she scanned the pages. He never asked why, he never thought to ask, it really was none of his concern. He simply knew he enjoyed that which occurred after she read the saucy novels.

His first matter of business as the new owner of the Metropolitan Opera was to sack Carlotta. He could still hear her shrieking objections as she was kindly escorted from the building and asked never to return. There was palpable relief among the orchestra, the stage crew and music directors when she was finally evicted from the stage.

He had begged, pleaded, with Christine to take the mantle of the prima donna. Crawling on his hands and knees like a dog before her, tears in his eyes.

 _‘Please,_ ’, he moaned, _‘My opera house will never be whole without you.’_

She had relented, agreeing with the stipulation that she go under a stage name, that her face be obscured with makeup and wigs. Hers was an attitude of supreme obligation, as though taking the role was simply to appease her husband. The attitude faded, dissolving rapidly with each rehearsal. Her heart began to bloom for the stage, her soul was filled with completion when she took her bow at her first curtain call. It was visible in the bright, fevered look in her eyes as she beamed up at his box, which hung close to the stage, clutching her hands to her chest in pride. With a performance which rivaled all, he was weeping like a babe, leaning over the balustrade of his private box with his arms outstretched to her in victory, as though she could fly up that very moment to embrace him. _You have wings, my darling,_ he said into her ear for her alone.

The entire theatre witnessed this spectacle.

Talk of the Opera Ghost’s appearance was all a twitter after that. The theory was that his bride had left him, and he now had his sights on Christine. Although, it began to grow obvious to some that the new and improved owner of the theatre and the ghost were possibly one and the same. At any rate, Christine enjoyed adding fuel to the stories. She had insisted one night that a good theatre should always have a phantom.

One brisk late February evening in 1930, Christine sat Erik down. She was glowing like a firefly on a hot summer night. They were to have a child; she had told him. He was going to be a father.

His reaction was quite deplorable. _‘No,’_ , he almost cried, _‘That cannot be. I cannot agree to such an arrangement.’_

 _‘There is no getting out of this, Erik!_ ’, she stood rod straight, hands on her hips in fury _._ ‘ _You will be a father whether you wish it or not.’_

He had run, like a pathetic coward, hiding himself away in his office in the Gilded Cage with the door bolted, losing himself in drink. Nadir had to sit him down and talk some sense into him.

 _‘A child is a blessed thing’_ , Nadir said. _‘Being a father was the single, greatest achievement of my life.’_

 _‘I am so scared.’,_ he confessed through drunken sobs, _‘What if I destroy it? What if I irrevocably ruin it?’_

 _‘You won’t.’,_ Nadir replied with confidence.

 _‘How can you know?’_ , Erik slurred.

_‘Because you have Christine as your wife. God only knows how she has managed to turn you into the man that you are now, but believe me, she will more than compensate for your faults.’_

_‘I am quite faulty.’_ , Erik mused. _‘How did I ever manage to cage such a bird?’_

 _‘Go apologize.’_ , Nadir commanded, with all the authority of a displeased father.

He had snuck into the bed that night, sliding between the sheets like a snake, reeking of booze but filled with regret and love. Clutching his wife close, he fervently whispered pleas for forgiveness.

 _‘I love you; I love our child.’,_ he murmured against her hair. _‘Please, do not leave me.’_

She gazed at him in the dark her eyes bright. She had known he would come around, he realized. Perhaps she knew him better than he knew himself.

 _‘I could never leave my Näcken,_ ’ _,_ She cheekily replied, _‘I’ve already drowned in your world.’_

He had hummed as his hands began to trace along her body in the dark, a body which he then watched change over the months. As her belly swelled and her breasts became heavier, he would simply relish in the fascinating changes he witnessed, reverently stroking her body in the dark with hands which had once given death to so many. He admired how his wife had begun to look delicious, like a ripe fruit, he wished to pluck her from the vine and devour her daily.

The child came a month early, bringing Erik to a level of panic he had not before experienced. Yet the birth was uncomplicated, he gripped his wife’s hand tightly throughout the whole, terrible ordeal, despite the midwife’s strong objections. His cool hands stroked her sweat lined brow and kissed her dampened hair as she rode out the pain.

When he looked into the face of his child for the first time, he was awestruck that someone as thoroughly broken and malformed as he could create a biological being so perfect. The sharp point of his skeletal finger touched the tiny, pert nose of the wiggling thing, his mind marveling.

 _‘A nose.’_ , he whispered, tears springing from his eyes.

When her eyes opened to gaze in his direction, his stomach fluttered to see how gold they were. It was like looking at his own eyes, proof that she belonged to him. Would they change with age? His never had, and he found himself praying they would stay this very color, to hold evident of his paternal right, that he had participated in creating this beautiful thing he now held.

He bid Nadir a farewell, informing him that his phonograph was off limits to Helen Kane before disappearing into his tunnel and descending to his home.

Life was different now that he had two ladies to care for. He found himself secretly vowing to utterly destroy anyone who dare harm a hair on either of their heads. It had been years since the whole Shade debacle, he had not required the use of his murderous skills since that saga had come to its end. Yet his hands would gleefully rob a thousand men of their lives if it ensured the wellbeing of his little family.

However, wouldn’t think of that right now, not when his wife was greeting him at the door and bidding him to their bed.

Tonight, he would dream, and he no longer feared his dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the very bittersweet moment. I find myself overcome as I submit this very final chapter of this small labour of love.  
> Thank you for those of who read it. As a new writer, I had no idea what I was doing half the time. The plot evolved organically and was primarily unplanned, save for a few main plot points.  
> I really could not have finished this had I not been given so much incredible support from all of my readers.  
> Thank you from the bottom of my heart.
> 
> Here are a few small notes about some items in this chapter:  
> *Helen Kane was the inspiration for Betty Boop, voice and all. The song Nadir is listening to is 'I wanna be loved by you.', Erik would have hated it.  
> *The stock market crashed October 1929 and was the catalyst for what became The Great Depression.  
> *Erik's rail car is based on a real one. It's called The Gold Coast car, it was owned by Lucius Beebe and Charles Clegg in the 30's. It is one of the most beautiful train cars I have ever seen. They called them 'Land Yachts'. You can see the railcar on display at the California State Railroad museum, but they also have a digital exhibit feature on their website if you are curious to see photos of the car.


End file.
